


Dark Desires

by kyella14



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, But only like 10 years, Demon Lord Harry, Half-Demon Harry, M/M, Massively AU, Medieval, No Horcruxes, Not Really Graphic Violence, Rating Might Change, Slash, Superior (Manga) Inspired, Tom is in his 30s, Tom is still a Dark Lord, but not a crossover - Freeform, but tagging for just in case, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyella14/pseuds/kyella14
Summary: Tom Riddle is the Champion drafted to defeat the Demon Lord. And in the opinion of Harry Evandel, Tom's half-demon travelling companion - stalker - a more terrible Champion has never existed. It isn't that Tom isn't powerful. Far from it, in fact. It's just that... well, Tom doesn't have the usual temperament of a Champion. You know, a moral compass and chivalry and all that. Harry should know - he's the Demon Lord who killed the last five Champions, after all.





	1. Selection

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
> 
> This story is a work-in-progress, as is the title. Updates will be sporadic. It's also available on fanfiction.net under the same title and username.

Tom hid a smile as the people around him exploded into heated discussion. The crowd was split into two sides, separated by a long table between. On each side, ten people sat, while Tom himself sat on one end of the table, with another man seated on the opposing end—James Potter.

            “James is clearly a better choice,” argued Sirius Black. “He is dedicated, good and his magic is Light-based! Unlike Riddle here, whose magic is about as dark as the Demon Lord himself!”

            Regulus Black, who was seated on the other side of the table—Tom’s side—sneered. “I hope you recall that the war criminal Gellert Grindelwald was of Light-affinity himself. It is a known fact of magic, my dear, ignorant brother, that Dark or Light magic does not suggest anything of the wizard’s character.”

            “Perhaps we should settle it with a duel,” suggested Amelia Bones. Some days, Tom thought that she was the only one with any hint of sense amongst the Light faction. “The stronger wizard would obviously have a better chance of defeating the Demon Lord.”

            “Aye!” roared Amos Diggory, slamming a fist on the glossy surface of the marble table. Severus Snape, who was seated opposite him, pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

            “That would be horribly unfair to your silly little Champion,” cackled Bellatrix Black. Today was one of her better days, so she was only half-mad. “But I shall delight in seeing the looks on your pathetic faces when you realise how weak and useless your Champion is.”

            “Now, now, Bella,” murmured Lucius Malfoy. His grey eyes danced with mirth that was at odds with the sombre look on his pale face. “Be polite.”

            “Surely, we can settle this without resorting to violence,” said Albus Dumbledore, the thrice-damned old man. He tried for a kindly smile, but Tom delighted in seeing the hidden worry in his twinkling eyes. “We are civilised men, are we not?”

            “Afraid I’ll kill your Champion, are you, Dumbledore?” asked Tom. There was a flash of something cold in the Leader of the Light’s eye, and Tom revelled in it—for it was that look that told him all he needed to know. Dumbledore knew that Potter was vastly outclassed by Tom, and knew that if pitted against each other, Tom would not hesitate to, at best, humiliate Potter. At worst, Marlene Potter would end up a young widow.

            “I trust James,” said Dumbledore easily. The foolish Potter looked smug at that commendation, and tilted his chin upwards at Tom ever so slightly. Tom smiled back.

            “I see,” said Tom. And he did. Dumbledore’s statement, on the surface, could be taken as a statement of Potter’s skills—but, in truth, Dumbledore had dodged Tom’s question, referring, instead, to Potter’s character, rather than ability. In short, Dumbledore was lying. Not that any amongst the light were smart enough to see that—except, perhaps, Bones. The woman had narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.

            “How about a battle in skills?” asked Arthur Weasley, his eager eyes turning to Dumbledore, like a puppy seeking approval from its master. “Enchanting, perhaps, or warding. The Champion shall be the person who is capable of creating the finest piece.”

            “We are selecting a Champion to fight the Demon Lord, Weasley. Not the winner of some contest,” sneered Lucius. The man had composure almost on par with Tom’s—until Weasley opened his mouth. “Not that I would expect you to understand. Did you think that, perhaps, you could take the enchanted pieces? To decorate the doubtlessly ill-furnished shoebox you call a home. The only luxury it will or has seen for a long time, I am sure.”

            Weasley turned red with fury and embarrassment. “See here, Malfoy—”

            “Gentlemen,” called Dumbledore, cutting off the building argument quickly. “I think Arthur’s idea has some merit.” Weasley shot Malfoy a triumphant look, as though to say: _Dumbledore likes me best._ Dear Merlin, if Tom wasn’t so disgusted by how in love Dumbledore’s followers were with the man’s arse, he’d be impressed by how Dumbledore manipulated and inspired such devotion. As it were, he found his temper running short. “But Lucius has a point, as well, though he could have put it more delicately.”

            “This isn’t your school, Dumbledore,” said Lucius, his eyes narrow slits. “We are grown men and women, are we not? We do not need to hear you chastising us like we are as unruly as the children you teach.”

            “Apologies, Lucius,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes twinkled on, undaunted. “I propose that we hold a competition. Each Champion must defend against a demon attack—simulated, designed to behave like demons and attack like demons, but not true demons. Throughout the night, they will fortify their bases against the demons. The Champion with the most heavily fortified area shall be the winner.”

            “That sounds reasonable,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, breaking his usual, stoic silence. _To you_ , thought Tom scathingly. This was a defensive game, more of Potter’s area of specialty than Tom’s, who favoured offensive magics. Obviously, Dumbledore knew that. No matter, decided Tom. Even if he wasn’t as adept at defensive magic as he was at offensive magic, even what he considered subpar would be far better than what Potter could produce.

            Griselda Marchbanks nodded. She was, much to Tom’s irritation, the only Dark-affiliated Council member that was not under his influence. Andromeda Tonks, at least, was influenced by her familial ties with Bellatrix, however fragile those ties may be.

            “I would like to volunteer myself to evaluate the fortifications myself. The battlefield will also be selected and warded by me, with the assistance of some of my _trusted_ colleagues—none of the Council members apart from I will be privy to the details, of course,” said Marchbanks, her papery voice strong and clear despite her apparent frailty. Tom suppressed a frown—Marchbanks was smart enough to cover all potential leaks in information.

            She gave everyone in the room a beady-eyed look, as though daring them to challenge her. Even Dumbledore was subjected to it. “I believe I am the most capable of being impartial, and at the very least, I think I have proven my own ability in the magical arts to be considered a worthy judge.”

            That much, Tom could admit was true. While Marchbanks was an irritant when she stood against him, she was equally as much a pain in Dumbledore’s side. The latter part of her statement, too, was somewhat of an understatement, as Marchbanks was famous for her work in enchanting. Since the emergence of demons some one hundred years past, when Marchbanks was a young woman, she had pioneered some of the most effective spells and enhancements for combating the creatures.

            Dumbledore could not deny her statement either, nor any of his Light sycophants. “Of course, Madam Marchbanks,” he murmured, his ever-present smile on his lips, a hint of stiffness in his posture the only suggestion that he was not entirely happy with the turn of events.

            It was only undesirable if one had no faith in their Champion, mused Tom after the meeting adjourned. Therefore, Tom found himself quite indifferent to the outcome. The battle—contest, really—would take place tonight, after sundown. It was necessary if one wished to properly imitate demonic attacking strategies. The creatures were strongest at night, often attacking in hordes. They had magics of their own, though their shamans were rarely involved in minor attacks. Often, only minor demons were seen, raiding outlying villages in waves. Their attacks were purely physical, favouring their weapons and claws.

            Still, this was a contest to select the Champion to defeat the Demon Lord. Tom wouldn’t be surprised if Marchbanks managed to replicate a demon shaman’s attacks, even in the short time span she was given.

            He would need to prepare.

            Tom suppressed a bloodthirsty smile—he dearly hoped that he would be on the same battlefield as Potter. Perhaps, he could arrange an accident for the irritating man who had dared looked at him with such condescension.

~*~

            Night fell.

            Tom was already deep within the forest that edged the city of Hogwarts. It was a scholar’s city, widely known for its library that boasted the largest collection of books on magic in existence. It was also well-known for housing the prestigious Academy of Hogwarts, Tom’s alumni school that was currently headed by Dumbledore.

            Usually, at this time, students were milling about in the forest, either on late night dates, or collecting herbs and ingredients for potions. But tonight, there were none, for they had all been warned off the forest. Students would approach at their own peril, risking death. Some had seemed interested in coming anyway, just to watch the contest. But a few sharp words, along with threats of expulsion from the Headmaster, and threats of arrest by Bones had deterred them.

            The clearing Tom stood in was the spot he was designated. Unfortunately, the forest itself had been off-limits since Marchbanks announced it as the chosen battlefield an hour after the meeting. So, he had spent the afternoon scouring maps of the forest, instead, studying them until he could remember every turn of the path, every clearing, every landmark. He knew he was stood somewhere in the north-eastern side of the forest, and that there was a lake further east of him.

            He studied his surroundings. He would have preferred somewhere less open, but he had little choice in the matter. At the very least, the clearing would force the demons to run across open ground to attack him, and the trees that edged the ground were low and thin, offering little coverage.

            The contest begun at sundown, which had been five minutes ago. There was no loud declaration of ‘Begin’, nor any sort of signal—only the assumption that the competitors would understand the implicit rules. Tom understood immediately. He was sure Potter did, too, if only because Dumbledore would have ensured it.

            Tom had spent the time building up his base. He had waved his staff and conjured low blocks of granite from the ground to take cover behind—rudimentary, but effective and energy-conserving. He raised basic wards throughout the clearing; he managed an alert ward several feet away, an offensive ward at the edge of the clearing and a defensive ward layering it before he heard it.

            Rasping noises. Hissing. Muffled chatter in a strange language.

            Tom threw his senses wide, readying himself.

            The first demon that appeared from the shadows was a short, ugly thing. Its skin was blackened tar, with glistening fangs and claws as it ran blindly ahead, snarling. Glowing red runes were carved on its forehead, and its beady eyes were dark and cruel. It ran headfirst into Tom’s offensive ward and was eliminated with a whip of water, so condensed that it sliced the creature in half.

            Tom was grudgingly appreciative of Marchbanks’ work. The detail was remarkable. The dead demon went sailing back into the shadows, leaving its lower half bleeding black blood on the dirt.

            The rattling breath of the demons died. Tom took advantage of their momentary hesitance and slammed his staff against the ground, a long incantation leaving his lips. A stream of water bled onto the ground from within the east side of the forest, drawn from the lake nearby. It followed the cracks of the earth out into the clearing, circling around Tom. He drew his wand and waved it once. The water roiled and stretched into the air, defying gravity as it reached higher and higher, curving inward until they joined together above Tom to form a dome.

            It was a water ward, one of Tom’s own invention. It would let Tom’s own spells and magic through, but would attack and drown anyone else who tried to go through it. Tom was particularly proud of this one, however, because it was also able to trace perpetrators of magical attacks back to the caster and attack them.

            Just in time, too, for the demons seemed to have gotten over their friend’s death.

            More padded forth from the shadows, vicious snarls on their lipless mouths, circling the ward cautiously. Another tested the ward, in a different spot. It died quickly.

            They kept on testing the wards, and kept on dying. Tom knew not to be satisfied so quickly—this was the first wave of demons. Often, the weakest, sent forth like pawns to check their enemies’ defences. A strategic line of thinking that did not exist before the Demon Lord took up his mantle.

            When it became clear that there were no holes in the ward, they fell back. Tom erected a few more barriers in quick succession in the moment’s reprieve. Summoned daggers lay in wait, traps laid and a few more offensive wards raised. He was careful not to expend too much of his energy. The contest would last all night.

            The wind shifted, and Tom could taste the sickly sweet scent of the demons. There was a hint of something metallic in it, like blood, but it was mostly masked. The chattering returned, louder.

            The minor demons reappeared suddenly. They surged forwards as one, hundreds of demons pressing against Tom’s wards. The wards strained under the pressure, even as the demons were sent flying backwards, water lashing out violently at them. Yet, Tom could see that the power behind his ward’s attacks were getting weaker and weaker, as the demons continued to drain it of magic.

            He poured more of his energy in, using his wand to channel his magic. But he couldn’t just do that, as the demons were quickly overwhelming his ward, clambering atop each other. Their combined weight itself would crack his defence. His staff slashed through the air, a sideways sweep that cut down at least fifty of the demons in half in one blast of pure power. It did little to help, as instantly, more stepped forwards, and pressed against his ward again.

            One of the demons triggered a trap, and there was a loud explosion. A demon leg landed mere inches from where Tom stood. A crater remained where the trap once was, but that was quickly filled by more demons.

            “ _Ardens sanguinem_ ,” incanted Tom, his staff weaving through the air, while his wand continued to channel magic into his damaged ward. Demons fell, screaming and twitching, as he boiled their blood with his magic. Some of the weaker ones died within seconds, their eyes and ears dribbling thick, black liquid.

            He used the end of his staff to draw a series of runes in the ground. They glowed briefly, and another ward flared into existence just beyond the boundaries of his first ward. He had worked a replication rune into his first ward when he had drawn the runes along the edges of the clearing at the beginning of the contest. It allowed him to activate another ward in a shorter amount of time with less energy required, and he didn’t need to be within immediate vicinity to do so.

            It cut the constant stream of demons off nicely. The new ward had all the power of a freshly established one and sliced the demons in half while Tom dealt with the creatures caught in between the two wards. He reinforced the older ward quickly, patching it together and pouring more of his Dark magic into it.

            The demons looked restless, but not fearful, noted Tom. Perhaps Marchbanks simply didn’t design them to display emotions, though he doubted it. She had shown a remarkable sense of detail so far—surely, she had included this, too.

            Tom deduced that the demons were most likely waiting for something.

            His assumption was proved correct when a crimson red ball of power slammed straight into his boundary ward. There was a loud cracking sound as spidery lines spiked through his ward. Small gaps appeared, fraying magic falling like singed pieces of fabric, crumpled and wilting. Tom growled.

            Demon shamans.

            The first appeared from within the west side of the forest, a hulking form. Purple veins stood out, bright and clear on its shadowy hide. A pair of horns adorned its head, pulsing jewels embedded in them. In its clawed hands, it gripped a sword. It stabbed it downwards into the ground, and let loose an ear-shattering roar.

            The other demons howled with it, their dark eyes burning with new energy.

            Tom sighed, twitching his wand. A condensed, dark blue spear formed in the air before him, mists of magical power practically pouring off it. He pulled his wand back, lifting the tip into the air, and lashed out, throwing his own momentum forwards. The spear pierced through the air and drove into the demon shaman’s chest. Skin, flesh and sinew tore, as demon blood spiralled through the air and splashed onto the ground, the grass sizzling into grey ash where the blood touched.

            The demons stared, silenced, as their shaman toppled to the ground, dead.

            _Really, Marchbanks, this isn’t even a challenge—_

            There was a low, growling noise. A larger demon came from the shadows, stepping over the prone shaman’s body. Two more followed. Tom glanced at the other areas of the forest—on the east, north and south side, there were four demon shamans each. And all of them were staring at him with hatred in their eyes.

            “Well,” said Tom. A smile curved on his dark red lips, feral, with a flash of pearl-white teeth. “I stand corrected.”      


	2. Collision

Naturally, Tom emerged the winner.

            Unfortunately, Potter made it out alive, even though Tom had wrapped his magic around the minds of some of the demon shamans attacking him and directed them to Potter. It was depressingly easy to control them, but perhaps that had more to do with the fact that they were simulations with no real intelligence.

            It was not for naught, however, as Severus had informed him with as much cheer as his sour face could manage that Potter had lost an eye.

            “A delightful exercise, if I may say so, Madam Marchbanks,” said Tom.  

            Potter twitched, his hand reaching up toward his patched eye before he remembered himself. Sirius—for it was far too tiresome, even in his thoughts, to call the man ‘Black’ when there were two other Blacks in the room—stared at Tom with a dark, seething anger that made his eyes glitter. It did not do much other than amuse Tom, though he did wonder how much of the Black madness had found its way to the man.

            “Thank you, Mr. Riddle,” said Marchbanks drily.

           Tom nodded, seating himself back down at the head of the table. At his cue, the other Council members of the Dark faction sat, too, as though they had been waiting for him to sit first this whole time—which they likely had. Even Andromeda heeded his hierarchy; reluctant though she was to be a part of his faction, she regardless knew it would be more beneficial for her lifespan in the long run to play along.

            The only one who refused to obey him was Marchbanks, and she was far too high-profile for Tom to deal with. It mattered not, anyway, Tom supposed—she was likely to die soon, without his interference. The woman was older than Dumbledore, for Merlin’s sake.

            “Where is Dumbledore, if I may ask?” said Lucius, tapping his fingers on the table in a show of impatience. His lip twisted. “Does he think himself so above us that he can make us wait?”

            Severus smirked. “Perhaps, my friend, he is simply too embarrassed by Potter’s pathetic performance.”

            Potter flushed an ugly purple-red, but whatever prepared retort he had died on his lips when Dumbledore swept through the doorway, long beard, yellow robes and all.

            “You should know better than I not to spread tales, Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice was warm on the surface, but cold as ice, dripping with razor sharp icicles underneath. The warning was clear. The man himself came to a stop behind James’ chair, his shadow an imposing figure as the candlelight flickered. “Your unfortunate experiences at Hogwarts should, surely, have taught you how hurtful words can be?”

            Severus flinched, his sallow skin paling further. The Potions Master was a formidable man, but his wounds were deep and raw—and easy to find. What was far more intriguing was Dumbledore’s words, so barbed and unexpected they were; they prodded at Severus’ open wounds with a rarely displayed ruthlessness that was more fitting for Tom than Dumbledore.

            _He is angry_ , realised Tom, an almost unfamiliar, bubbling sensation rising in his chest. He fought the grin that was forming on his lips, wrestling his expression into a picture of polite blankness.

            Minerva McGonagall cast Dumbledore a chastising look, which was easily ignored.

            Bones’ frown was etched deep in her face when she spoke, “You are already late, Mr. Dumbledore,” she said in a clipped tone. “I would advise you to take a seat so that we may begin this meeting.”

            “Indeed, Madam Bones,” said Dumbledore, as he strode over to the only empty hard-back wooden chair left. He sat down with all the poise of a king settling into his throne, and peered imperiously around at them all. “Apologies, fellow Councilmen and Councilwomen, for my lateness. There were pressing matters at hand that needed to be dealt with—the demons have been restless of late. There was a report from a scout that the Demon Lord is planning something.”

            “Something?” asked Kingsley Shacklebolt. A tall, heavily muscled man, Shacklebolt was still sweltering away in his armour, which sat heavy on him. A warrior, through and through, favouring his two-handed sword, and only using magic to infuse his stupidly slow attacks.

            “We do not know what,” admitted Dumbledore. “He reports seeing a sudden silence at the last known fortress of the Demon Lord’s vassal.”

            “Perhaps she moved,” suggested Penelope Clearwater. She was their youngest member, and newly inducted only a week ago. Of course, she wouldn’t know that the last time the Demon Lord’s vassal had gone quiet, there had been a sudden, large-scale attack launched on one of their major towns. They had lost that city, and it was now overrun by demons.

            Dumbledore shook his head. “The decrease in demonic activity is occurring everywhere.”

            Tom leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Everywhere?”

            “Yes.” The old man’s voice was grave, concern roiling beneath. “Even deep within demon territory, as far as our scout can tell. On his way back, he passed a camp some miles from the Hogwarts wards. He said it looked like a demon camp; at least fifty of them were there, once again attempting to infiltrate Hogwarts. It was abandoned about five days ago, when they turned back.”

            “Turned back?” Potter’s disbelief was clear in his voice, and Tom reluctantly agreed with his assessment. Demons were vicious creatures, bloodthirsty and stubborn. Once they set upon a target, hardly anything could force them away—unless…

            “They were following the Demon Lord’s orders,” concluded Tom.

            “I, too, believe that to be the case,” said Dumbledore.

            “Could they be rogue demons? Perhaps they simply abandoned the mission of their own volition,” said Clearwater, again demonstrating her utter inanity.       

            Andromeda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “They can’t. We suspect the Demon Lord has them under some sort of spell—it is the only way to explain the degree of control he is able to exert over them.”

            Clearwater looked stunned. “They… can’t? But we’ve been killing them this whole time! Now, you’re telling me that they were forced into it?”

            Lucius sneered. “The demon attacks have been occurring long before the Demon Lord was even born, little girl. If you had paid attention in your history lessons, you would know the threat the demons posed was but that of a fly in the face of giants—but when the Demon Lord took his throne ten years ago, their attacks became more precise. They were thought-out plans, battle strategies tailored to their targets. They became _smart._

            “That is the true threat of the Demon Lord—not his power, fearsome it may be, but his control over the demon race and his own ability to _think._ ” It was an ominous statement, one that turned Clearwater’s face pale. She nodded with as much poise as she could muster, but her hand shook when she fingered the wand holstered at her forearm.

            “On that lovely note,” Sirius interrupted the silence that had descended following Lucius’ words, “what are we going to do about it?”

            Orion Black frowned, toying with his goblet thoughtfully. “We could send our Champion out now.” He sent Tom an apologetic look. “The sooner the Demon Lord is dispatched, the sooner we can eradicate the demons. If he is _willing_ ,” he said carefully, “he may leave tomorrow.”

            “Alone?” shrieked Bellatrix.

            Tom twitched.

            “Of course, I did not mean that you could not do it, Tom,” said Bellatrix quickly, her cracked lips twisted into a simpering mess. “You are the strongest, after all!”

            “It is the way of the Champions,” said Dumbledore. “Tom knew this, as did James.”

            “Not afraid, are you, Riddle?” asked Potter, his disfigured face forming an ugly expression. “If I recall, the last three Champions never returned—and all we have of the two before them are their heads. It’s not too late to back out, Riddle…”

            “I, for one, hope he never comes back,” muttered Sirius, loud enough that it carried. The Dark-affiliated of the Council bristled. Even some of the Light-affiliated looked disapproving.

            “I would not keep my hopes up, Black,” said Tom pleasantly. “Really, I am saving your life by going, Potter. Or do you think so highly of yourself that you believe you can defeat the Demon Lord when even _false_ demons have taken your eye?”

            “A lone Demon Lord’s power does not equate to that of an entire demon horde, Riddle,” hissed Potter, half-rising, an angry flush of colour splotching his neck and cheeks.

            “No,” said Tom coldly, all pretence of politeness falling away as easily as shedding a cloak. “Because we all know that the Demon Lord far surpasses the strength of a demon horde—or have you forgotten what happened to Durmstrang?”

            The whole room shuddered. No one had forgotten what happened to Durmstrang. It had happened five years ago, and still, the horror of it was burned into all their minds. Even Tom had felt a flicker of fear and awe when he had seen the pictures. So much power…

            “I—” began Potter.

            “Enough,” Bones said sharply, the skin over her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of her chair. “Mr. Riddle has won the Selection, and is, therefore, our Champion. I will hear no more objection, nor any immature comments, on the matter. If we may discuss this like _adults_ ”—here, she glared at them all—“let us now put it to a vote: will Champion Riddle leave tomorrow on his quest to defeat the Dark Lord, if he is willing?”

            “I am willing,” added Tom.

            There was a murmur of ‘yes’, ‘I approve’, ‘Aye!’ and other concurrences. Potter and Sirius looked particularly bloodthirsty when they voted.

            “Very well,” said Bones. “I would also like to offer my belated congratulations to Champion Riddle on his victory last night…”

~*~

            An owl soared through the night sky, its white feathers gleaming in the moonlight. She was a sight to see, as silver as the moon itself, a dart of white amidst the landscape cast in the darkness of night.

            She flew over the treetops, aware that she was being watched. But they would not hurt her, even in this place that was so treacherous to humans and all manner of other creatures. They were under strict orders to allow her through. And none of them could disobey _him_ , for he was the strongest of them all.

            Gleaming eyes stared at her from below, watching her progress as she swooped deeper and deeper into the heart of demon territory. The closer she got, the more demons there were, and all were watching her with hunger and hatred. Their terrible fangs glistened with their saliva as they thirsted for her, yearning to tear into her fragile body, but unable.

            She had been afraid once—so much hatred, such desire to kill her and hurt the one that imprisoned them all… but that had been years ago, when she had first gone to _his_ side. She had gotten used to it.

            The fortress loomed over the tallest trees in the distance. It looked like a fearsome thing, black walls and towers that touched the clouds; spiked walls, on which the heads of unruly demons were mounted—one even had a human skeleton bound to it.

            She flapped her wings once, gliding over to one of the highest towers. Already, he was there, waiting. As he saw her approach, he smiled, warm and gentle.

            “Hedwig,” he said when she landed on the balcony of his room.

            She gave a hoot in reply.

            “Do you have news for me?”

            Hedwig stuck out her leg. A missive was attached to it, which he relieved her of quickly. She flew over to her perch, where water and treats were ready for her, settling in with as much content as an owl could show on her face.

            He paced as he read the letter, expression blank. There was one other in the room with him, a demoness in the guise of a human. She had wild, brown hair, which she had tied back into a ponytail. She tracked his progress as he walked the length of the room and back, before finally throwing himself into the couch by the fireplace, boneless.

            “Well?” she asked finally.

            “Another Champion,” he replied, his tone guarded.

            “When will they learn?” sighed the demoness, reclining in her own seat. The firelight danced across her skin. Every so often, her form seemed to ripple, skin peeling off to reveal the black skin of demons before patching itself back over seamlessly. Her eyes shifted constantly; brown to red, red to black, black to brown.

            “Apparently, this one is different,” he said. “Our friend says that this Champion is part of the Hogwarts Council.”

            “Oh?” The demoness paused in the jiggling of her feet, looking over to him.

            “Tom Riddle.” He said the name slowly, as though testing the taste of it on his tongue. A strange expression rippled across his face, like the taste wasn’t quite what he expected, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

            “Haven’t heard of him,” she said, her mind instantly rifling through the vast library of knowledge she kept hidden in there.

            “Because he doesn’t want you to,” he said. “Our friend says he is quite devious—he is magically powerful, but does not hold an important role within the Council, which is why he was drafted as a potential Champion in the first place. His absence would not overtly disrupt Council proceedings.”

            “But?”

            “ _But_ ,” he conceded, flashing a smile at the demoness. “He is the puppet master behind Lucius Malfoy, the Leader of the Dark-affiliated faction of Hogwarts. Malfoy obeys Tom Riddle, as does most of the Dark-affiliated. Apparently,” he paused here, looking terribly amused, “they call him _Lord_ in private. Lord Voldemort.”

            The demoness laughed, high and unforgiving in the condescension that lay within. “Does he seek to usurp your throne, then?” Her tone said clearly how little she cared for the thought.

            “In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he said. The hilarity in his companion’s eyes vanished instantly, and on her painted lips sat a vicious snarl that revealed her inhumanity even in her guise. “The title of ‘Defeater of the Demon Lord’ is a political boon.”

            “His arrogance will be his downfall, if he thinks he can destroy my Lord so easily,” spat the demoness.

            “You flatter me, Hermione,” said the Demon Lord, a slight grin on his face. The smile faded as he spoke his next words, “We cannot afford an interruption at this stage…”

            Hermione nodded. “I will leave tomorrow, my Lord.”

            “No,” he said sharply. The demoness blinked. “Our friend says this one is different. I am choosing to believe him, especially after what our friend has told me… I will kill this Tom Riddle myself.”

            “Fine,” said Hermione, pursing her lips. “I don’t like it, but if I insist on going, you won’t listen to me, will you?” He smiled, a sheepish thing that seemed ill-fitting on the face of one called the Demon Lord. “But don’t bring him back here. You know how I feel about unnecessary torturing.”

            He looked at her, raising an eyebrow; this was an exchange he had experienced many times before, but it never dulled his disbelief of it. “You’re a _demon._ ”

            “It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she shot back, lifting her chin haughtily. “The last Champion they sent is still hanging on your walls. I’ve told you, time and time again, to take it down! It’s hideous and unnecessary. We should send the bones back at least.” She paused. “ _All_ the bones, too, not just the skull.”

           He shrugged. “The demons like it. You’re the oddity, Hermione, all this harping on about morality and ethics.”

            She scowled. “When do you leave?” she asked, changing the subject.

            “I don’t know,” said the Demon Lord, sighing. “I still need to sort some things out. The demons are complaining about my orders to reduce their raiding. Some think I’m going soft”—he rolled his eyes—“but I can’t leave unless I want to risk some foolish demons testing the boundaries of my orders.”

            “That’s why you have your vassals, my Lord,” chided Hermione. “If you won’t let us hunt down Riddle for you, at least let us handle this. I know Neville is eager to test out some of his more bloodthirsty plants; he’s been experimenting with the Venomous Tentacula recently.”

          “That thing is already vicious enough without his experiments,” he said, wincing.

            Hermione grimaced. “I know. I was in there yesterday—it was a nightmare.”

            The Demon Lord sighed. “Fine, I’ll leave you to it. But report to me if anything major happens.”

            “Of course, my Lord. How long will you be gone?”

            He glanced down at the parchment still in his hand, the frayed edges curling into themselves. His eyes reflected the firelight, twisting flames colouring them yellow-red.

            _He slaughtered an entire demon horde, simulated, but only a little weaker than our average horde_ , said the words scrawled on the missive. _This one is in a league of his own, perhaps only matched by Albus Dumbledore._

            The Demon Lord mulled over it, pursing his lips. “A while,” he said. “This one needs to be watched first.”

            Hermione raised an eyebrow, but inclined her head. “I will inform the others, my Lord.”


	3. Dreams

Tom’s home in Hogwarts lay within the bowels of the Slytherin Dungeons. Though, home did not accurately describe the place; home suggested somewhere comfortable, cosy. A place to relax and sit in comfort. Tom had nothing of the sort.

            For one, his residence was an entire floor of the seventh, and final, level of the dungeons, deep beneath the surface, burrowed into the rock. An underground penthouse. The second reason was that it was more of a base of operations. It was an expensive place, and Tom made sure to decorate his residence with expensive taste that would appeal to most of his Knights, his followers. He maintained it, kept it clean and tidy, but there was a certain coolness to the place that did not come from the chill of the dungeon air, but as though the place itself somehow hinted at the detachedness with which Tom treated it.

            The white walls were painted with a green, shimmering glow as his charmed windows displayed the Black Lake that spanned the centre of Hogwarts. There were no fish in its icy waters, only magical creatures that sometimes pressed their webbed hands to his window. Snarling lips that were kept at bay by a thin piece of glass, brittle fingers that grasped in vain at its slippery surface.

            Tom was ensconced in his study, the only room that had no windows. He didn’t want any interruptions when he was working. The books in his study were stacked high on shelves that reached from floor to ceiling, mostly books that were most expensive or those that he favoured most. The rest of his collection was in the library that took up half his floor. Candlelight lit up the study, charmed so that they lasted as long as he wished and so that they did not drip wax all over the Nundu fur rug Lucius had gifted him last Yule.

            The mahogany wood of his study table was carefully polished, stacks of his notes separated into neat piles. Maps were on the right side of his table, with bits of parchment within written in his hand. He had had his head bent over a particularly frustrating map, for it had more blank spaces on it than mapped areas. His quill inked notes onto the aged parchment, arrows drawn with question marks, and other bits of parchment strewn along the side.

            Speculations were written onto the margins—a lake here, perhaps?—all gathered from the vaguest witness accounts Tom had scoured up from the Hogwarts Library and had been studying for several months.

            His building migraine, however, was interrupted as the empty fireplace flared to life.

            Tom glanced up. A small, antique clock he had on his table swung open with a tap of his fingers. Inscribed words within announced his visitor as Lucius Malfoy. Tom waved his hand over his papers, and the words on them shifted and scrambled to form new meanings, hiding his thoughts from his impending visitor.

            “Enter,” murmured Tom, placing his quill down. The fireplace bloomed with green fire, and with a rush of soot and a tingle of Cleaning Charms Tom had placed around the grate, the tall, blonde man stepped forth, head bowed in deference.

            “My Lord.”

            “Lucius,” said Tom. “This is a late visit.” And it was, for as his clock swung shut again, proudly displaying its face, swirling hands proclaimed it to be just past midnight.

            “Forgive me, my Lord,” said Lucius, “I only sought to offer you my assistance with your plans, should you require any.”

            Tom hummed. “How thoughtful,” he said in a mild tone that set Lucius on edge. “Very well, I shall forgive your presumptuousness tonight, if only because I need some intelligent conversation to relax.” He suppressed a sigh, massaging his temple gently as he gestured to the plush chair that was seated opposite himself. “Please.”

            Lucius’ eyes darted to the green cushion. He sat himself down with less grace and more stiffness than any was accustomed to seeing from the Malfoy. He smiled, a bare quirking of the corner of his lips, before settling back into an impassive visage once more.

            “Sniffy,” called Tom. With a _pop_ of displaced air, a well-dressed house-elf appeared next to him. The creature bowed its large head, and remained there, still as a statue. “Tea for my guest, and a glass of red for me, please.”

            “Yes, Lord Riddle sir,” it squeaked. It vanished again.

            Tom reclined back in his seat, a pleasant smile on his face. Lucius met his gaze, blinked once, and lowered his eyes, staring fixedly at the maps and notes on Tom’s desk. On the other end of the table, Tom kept his gaze steady on the Malfoy, a cold, dissecting look in his eye at odds with the smile he wore.

            Lucius may be a loyal Knight of Walpurgis, but he had always needed to be kept in check. If left too long without the reminder of who held the true power between them, Lucius would become more… flexible with his duties.

            Finally, Lucius broke the silence, shifting in his seat, “How are your preparations coming along, my Lord?”

            “As well as can be expected,” said Tom. “I knew from the beginning it was most likely that I would have to search for the Demon Lord’s location the old-fashioned way. Blood magic rituals cannot find him, no matter how I have attempted to modify and strengthen them.”

            “And your conclusions, my Lord?” Lucius remained staring at the table, his voice a thin disguise of calmness, with a tremor that cracked the façade.

            “It is most likely that a witch or wizard has performed protection rites on him, such that blood magic cannot uncover his hideout. As for his location…” Sniffy popped back in with the drinks and Tom nodded at the elf, dismissing it.

            With the pause in conversation, Lucius reached for a cup and took the first sip, as was polite. To hesitate would give an impression that he feared being poisoned by Tom.

            Lucius drank steadily, unflinchingly. He knew well enough that if Tom had wanted him dead, poison was not his way.

            “Dumbledore believes that the Demon Lord resides within Shyie Woods.” Tom’s lips tightened. “You do not agree, my Lord?”

            “No,” said Tom. “Shyie Woods is a logical conclusion, I will concur. It is an excellent location, within reach of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, well-defended by natural terrain as well.”

            “You believe it is too obvious,” concluded Lucius.

            Tom nodded, pleased that the man was catching on. “The Demon Lord, as you said in today’s meeting, is smart. He knows Shyie Woods is the first place we would think of.”

            “But, where else?” asked Lucius. “The Land of the Phoenixes?” There was a trace of sarcasm in there, a biting edge that made Tom frown. The Malfoy flinched.

            “Of course not,” said Tom. “Do you take me for a fool, Lucius? We both know quite well that the phoenixes would never allow creatures such as demons that so enjoy killing within their home, let alone the Demon Lord.”

            “I simply do not understand, my Lord,” placated Lucius. “It is the only other area within distance that we have not already searched. There are Garum Mountains north of here, but they are infested with giants—and giants and demons have never gotten along… Where else would the Demon Lord be, if not Shyie Woods?”

            “Ah, but you misunderstand me, Lucius,” said Tom. “I do not believe the Demon Lord resides there, but that is not to say that Shyie Woods is empty of demons. None of our spies or mappers that have ventured in there have ever returned—it would be foolish to think that there is nothing there…”

            “So, you believe that the Demon Lord resides elsewhere,” said Lucius, with a look of dawning comprehension. “And that Shyie Woods is where his demons gather… his true location must be close by, though. His demons have always mobilised far too quickly for him to be very far away from them.”

            “So we assume,” said Tom. “But we know very little of demonic arts… it is entirely possible that we have overlooked something in that regard.”

            “Indeed,” murmured Lucius. He paused. “If I may, my Lord, what are your thoughts on the vassal’s fortress?”

            Tom leaned back, taking a long drink of his wine. “It is suspicious,” he said finally.

            “It is further away from human and demonic populations than I expected, and it doesn’t seem to serve as much other than a minor outpost for the demons. Perhaps… the Demon Lord has been hiding in plain sight?”

            Tom did not fidget as he mulled over Lucius’ suggestion. Shyie Forest was north-west of here; the vassal fortress Lucius spoke of towards the east. His eyes drifted thoughtfully over his desk, scanning his maps and notes, but otherwise, he remained still as a statue. Occasionally, they darted to Lucius’ figure, relaxed but a hint of tension betrayed in the slight narrowing of his eyes. “Interesting,” murmured Tom after a long minute ticked past. “I will think on it.”

            Lucius stood, bending his back stiffly forwards as he recognised the dismissal in his Lord’s tone. “My Lord,” he said. His cape swept the floor as he turned with a decisive twist on his heel.

            Tom watched his Knight leave, and his sharp gaze lingering on the bead of sweat that had begun to form right on the edge of Lucius’ hairline, sitting above his temple.

~*~

            Tom never had dreams. When he slept, he was welcomed by blissful nothingness, then morning when he woke. Sometimes, there were the vaguest impressions on the edge of his mind when he woke. A shape, a colour, a feeling—but, that was it. He had never felt anything more concrete than that.

            Yet, tonight, Tom dreamt.

            A woman was squatting on the floor, staring off into the distance. Tom looked in the same direction, but all he saw was more of the murky expanse they were in, shrouded in mist. He blinked, and glanced at the woman. "Is this a dream?" he asked.

            She fixed her gaze on him, and smiled. Her eyes were shockingly pale and wide, her eyebrows and hair paler still. She blinked slowly at him, cocking her head to the side lazily. She was dressed in the strangest robes Tom had ever seen—brightly coloured, garish shades of oranges and yellows. They did not match the vacantness in her expression.

            "Hello," she said. Her voice was soft and lilting, a serenity to it that was not unlike the rest of her demeanour.

            "Hello," replied Tom. He could hear the curiosity in his own voice, the wariness. "Who are you?"

            The woman hummed, and stood, brushing herself off daintily. "You're Tom Riddle," she noted. "I've been waiting for you."

            Tom raised an eyebrow. "Waiting for me," he repeated, the scepticism heavy in his voice. "You've never met me."

            "Not yet," agreed the woman. She was small, Tom noticed, now that she was standing. Too small. She barely reached his chest, and her figure was slim—almost frail. There was a certain sheltered innocence to her, too, yet it did not match with the knowing in her pale eyes when she looked at him. As though she knew exactly what he was capable of.

            Tom stifled his stirring unease. "Enough with the mystery," he said coldly. "Who are you?"

            "I?" she said, a dreamy smile on her lips, unperturbed by his harshness. "I am unimportant. I am only an observer—one day I will be more, but for now, I observe, my Lord."

            Tom allowed himself a blink at the title. "Tell me your name," he said. It was the same tone he used so many years ago, when a famous, eccentric man turned up on the doorsteps of his orphanage and told him he had been invited to attend Hogwarts—the academy Tom had only ever seen from afar and yearned for.

            "It is not my name you need to know, my Lord," she said. Her wide, protuberant eyes affixed themselves on him, too distant, too strange.

            Tom drew his wand, tiring of the farce. The incantation sat at the tip of his tongue, and he knew the woman understood perfectly well what he intended to do.

            But she smiled. "I will give you a boon, Tom Riddle."

            His wand did not waver, but his eyes narrowed.

            " _It does not matter if you go east, west, north or south. You may go in any direction, but all paths lead to him_."

~*~

            Tom awoke to the sound of fading laughter.

            The dream weighed in his mind, its clarity sharp and crisp. The woman's parting words echoed in his head, her soft voice wrapping around his mind. The distant, vacant look in her eyes. The smile that withstood the threat of torture. And that laugh. High, tinkling laughter, sweet and beautiful. But it sent shivers down his spine, replaying relentlessly in his head.

            He swore.

~*~

            Somewhere, in a village surrounded in mountains, a woman laughed softly.

            "My Lady?" A hesitant voice spoke from outside the room, the speaker hidden by the shimmering veil that draped over the entrance.

            "Oh, it's nothing, Cho," said the woman in her vague way. "I was just laughing to myself. I had a delightful conversation with a poor Fingleloop, you see."

            A long silence. "I see."

            She curled up in the darkness, pale hair spreading over the soft cloths strewn messily over her beds. A thin arm raised, painted in glittering ink and swirling lines. On her wrist, a ring of corks hung. "Can I speak to my father, Cho?"

            "I'm afraid not, my Lady," was the immediate reply, cool and detached.

            The woman blinked, long and slow. "How disappointing," she remarked. "What about the little one? I haven't seen her in a while. She always looks so sad."

            "No, my Lady."

            "I hope I can speak to them soon. Maybe sometime before the next moon."

            "Why the next moon, my Lady?"

            There was no reply. Shrouded in thick shadows, the Lady only closed her eyes and let a peaceful smile spread across her face. She would like to see the moon. And the stars. The clouds. The sky. She would like to see many things, things she missed dearly. But as she listened to the sound of Cho's light footsteps pattering away from her room, off to recite the Lady's latest, cryptic words, she knew she would have to wait one more month.

            It would be a long month.


	4. Ceremony

Tom _dearly_ wished to Crucio Bellatrix Black. Every word from her wretched lips pushed that temptation higher and higher.

            “Are you quite sure, my Lord?” she simpered, her clawed fingers digging through his cloak. “I wouldn’t mind coming with you. Not because I am worried for you, you understand. Just in case you need me for _anything._ You can use me as you like, my Lord,” she promised lustfully, her hooded eyes staring up at him through her lashes. She pushed her cleavage up against his arm, squeezing her arms tighter together so that her breasts looked fuller and threatened to spill out of her dress.

            Tom ruthlessly suppressed a shudder, his skin crawling like a million insects were creeping across its surface. He sent a spark of wandless magic at her, just a twist of pain. She let go instantly, but the crazed look on her face took on a sheen of arousal.

            “Miss Black,” he said coolly, grasping onto his composure like a lifeline. He let an edge of disdain bleed through into his tone. “If you are quite finished, I would much rather see to it that my horse has been well-tended.”

            She pouted, a jutting of her lips that she seemed to think was attractive. It made her look like a fish gasping for air. “My Lord, I’m sure there are other more… stimulating activities we can do.”

            “Bella,” said Tom, his tone sharpening into a razor edge. “Enough. Leave me.” The order rang clear, and while it did achieve the desired effect, it seemed _too_ effective.

            “Of course, my Lord,” breathed the woman, a lovesick smile crossing her face before she turned and danced away.

            Tom’s eyes squeezed shut briefly, and he let loose his breath in one thin exhale.

            He was hardly one to thank deities or Merlin or whatnot; for why should he, when the real credit often belonged elsewhere and not with gods and old men of the past? But there were times when Tom couldn’t help but thank magic, god, Merlin or all three that Bellatrix was promised to Rodolphus Lestrange. Otherwise, he was quite certain that the madwoman would have been twice as zealous and rabid in her… pursuit.

            After a moment’s more meditation, Tom opened his eyes. The sun had only risen a few hours ago, and he was already tired. Before Bellatrix had attached herself to him, he had received similar advances from other townswomen. Since stepping out of Slytherin Dungeons when dawn broke, he had been fielding overly forward women—and not a few men—obsessed with getting a taste of the Champion before he left on his grand quest.

            Thankfully, preparations for the Champion’s Ceremony in the town square and the Leaving Party at the Eastern Gates where Tom would depart from were in full swing now. Everyone was busy setting up, well _away_ from where Tom was now, in the northern part of town.

            A good distance away from the bustle and chaos, Tom was safely hidden amidst the winding paths and cramped structures of the northern town region. The back of Hogwarts loomed over him, the torches that lined the outside of the castle still burning happily, charmed to last through wind and rain.

            It was not the old castle that was his destination, however, but the stables opposite it. There, his mare, Nagini neighed when she saw him. She was a fierce thing, and Tom had once seen her throw the half-giant Hagrid off in one wild buck. Tom was the only one she accepted.

            He withdrew an apple from within his cloak as he approached her, holding it out for her to take. “Are you ready, Nagini?” asked Tom quietly, patting her thick neck gently. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

            She nickered, throwing her head back proudly. Tom smiled, resting a hand on her brow to soothe her, where a strange, emerald pattern distinguished her from other horses. It looked almost like scales, or perhaps snake skin, white standing out vividly against her silky black coat.

            Tom’s hand reached into his cloak again, except this time, they extracted a massive saddle that should not have fit under the cloak, let alone remain hidden so well. He threw it over Nagini’s back. A few flicks of his wand secured the saddle in place. He paused before the final motion, tilting his head towards the stable entrance slightly. “Go have some water,” Tom told the mare quietly, giving her one final pat.

            He straightened, his face impassive as he turned. It was a hard feat, considering the sight that greeted him. “Severus.”

            “I wanted to wish you luck on your mission, my Lord,” said the Potions genius with a low bow. His sallow skin, usually pale and yellowed from years of being deprived from sunlight and stained with strange fumes from his concoctions, was a blotchy patchwork of glimmering gold and red. His hair, too, before greasy and limp, was curled into a frizzy afro, wilder than Hagrid’s beard.

            “Thank you, Severus,” said Tom. He paused, wondering if he should comment. Finally, Tom asked, “Are you well?”

            Snape’s mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “I had an… incident with Potter and Black while I was on my way here.”

            “Oh?”

            “It is nothing of importance, my Lord. I also had news,” said Snape, switching topics with less finesse than he usually displayed. Tom inclined his head, gesturing for the man to continue. “Dumbledore convened the Order last night.” His deep voice tinged with unease, marring its smooth quality.

            “And you are concerned. Why?” Tom twisted his body to face his follower.

            “It is difficult to say, my Lord.” Snape’s brow furrowed in confusion even as he spoke, “It was after the meeting. Dumbledore had left. Some of the members lingered, but they seemed… restless.”

            “Who stayed?” asked Tom.

            “Black, Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones and Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

            “That’s a strange group,” murmured the Dark Lord. “And they waited until Dumbledore left?”

            “Yes, my Lord. They did not want me to stay either,” said Snape, almost apologetically. “I left soon after; there was little point in me staying when they clearly would not divulge information before me. Most believe I am spy.”

            “Which you are,” said Tom, amused.

            Snape’s lips twitched upwards. “I believe there were others that joined the group—I am almost entirely certain one of them was Potter. None turned up even while I lingered outside the meeting chambers, yet when I left I thought I heard footsteps.”

            “Potter’s Invisibility Cloak and his Map.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            Tom hummed thoughtfully. “As much as I would like to believe Dumbledore’s followers are plotting a rebellion and intend to overthrow him, they are far too sycophantic to even dream of doing so. Yet, if they waited until Dumbledore left the chambers, that surely means that they are planning something they do not want Dumbledore to know of,” he speculated, the cogs of his mind turning quickly. “And unless it’s Dumbledore’s birthday party, this suggests whatever they’re planning, Dumbledore will not approve.”

            Snape nodded once, clearly having reached the same conclusion already.

            “If Black and Potter are involved, and more than likely, the ringleaders, this will turn vicious,” said Tom. “Black may deny it to his dying breath, but he carries some of the Black taint.”

            “I know better than anyone,” said Snape bitterly. Tom glanced at his follower, whose expression had turned haunted.

            “Your fear shows, Severus,” said Tom, as much rebuke as it was condescension. “I have little care for your… trauma, but do learn to hide it better.”

            Immediately, the Potions Master’s face smoothened out, expression wiped blank. Even his eyes had returned to the black, depthless pits that they usually were. The almost friendly banter between them died, and all that was left were two strangers discussing business. “It is not fear, but anger, my Lord.”

            “Of course,” dismissed the Dark Lord, his attention already shifting back to the problem at hand. His tone turned authoritative. “Be watchful. If you learn anything new regarding this plot of theirs, you will send word.”

            “By owl, my Lord?” asked Snape carefully.

            Tom paused. “No. You will report to Orion in my absence. He will know how to contact me.”

            “As you wish,” murmured Snape. He offered a deep bow.

            Tom nodded, waving his hand in dismissal. “You may go. Inform Orion and Andromeda that I wish to see them.”

            The Potions Master murmured his acquiescence and turned on his heel, cloak fanning out behind his feet as he strode toward the exit. Tom did not spare the man another look.

~*~

             The Champion’s Ceremony began at noon. Five minutes before, Tom took his seat at the centre of the long table, in between the leaders of the Dark and Light Sects, trying to resist the temptation to curse Dumbledore’s seat, if only because that was too petulant for someone of his position.

            Perhaps he would make Lucius do it instead.

            A massive crowd of eager citizens craned their heads to get a better look at him.  Tom indulged in conversation with Lucius to while away the few minutes before the town clock chimed, occasionally flashing the excited crowd a charming smile.

            The town square had been made up extravagantly. There were flowers everywhere—roses, irises, daffodils, lavenders—some hovering in the air above by magic, occasionally scattering petals, some wrapped around the makeshift stage Tom’s table was on, and some brought by the citizens themselves. The Champion Ceremony was always one of the largest events, and florists closed down for weeks afterwards, having sold all their blooms during the celebration.

            He noticed, however, that there were some brought more morbid flowers. Aloe for grief, held in the arms of a sombre young woman, cypress for death, grasped in a middle-aged man’s hands. He recognised neither— _Muggles_ , he thought with a tinge of disdain.

            It was only to be expected, however. They fought a seemingly endless war with the demons, and so many Champions had come and gone, most of them more famous than Tom—at least, to the wider public.

            The people clamoured forward in a line, laying their flowers and gifts down in front of the stage. There were looks of awe, admiration and gratitude. The feeling was heady, and Tom let himself settle back with a pleased smile, almost managing to ignore the pitying look the Muggle man gave him when it was he reached the front of the stage. Fool. He needed no pity; he who was so much more than his weak predecessors.

            Tom smiled at the man, regardless, though his eyes made the Muggle shudder and avert his gaze, settling instead, on something behind Tom. Tom reached out his senses, and felt the hated familiarity of Dumbledore’s magic. He gave no indication that he had noticed the old man’s arrival, not even when the seat to his left pulled back and Dumbledore’s jaunty voice sounded from directly next to him.

            Dumbledore was just in time, for as he sank into his seat, the clock struck twelve.

            The ringing of the bells created a deep, thundering rumble in the ground, sending birds squawking and flying. The crowd cheered loudly, though they were barely heard over the bells.

            Lucius and Dumbledore rose in their seats. The latter seemed at ease, even as he beamed at Lucius, who hid his disdain behind a thin veneer of politeness. Penelope Clearwater climbed up the stairs and onto the podium, clearing her throat. It was a nervous sound, but the crowd hushed at once, impatient for the celebrations to begin.

            “The Council Leaders, Lucius Abraxus Malfoy of the Dark Sect and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore of the Light Sect, will now open the Champion’s Ceremony,” she announced, her voice shaking slightly.

            With a few well-chosen words from Lucius (“Bamboo! Umbo! Fain! Wicket!” said Dumbledore) and a clap of their hands, the Ceremony began. Tables with food stacked high on them appeared out of thin air. A fountain of drinks shimmered into existence in the centre of the town square, much to the people’s delight. Tom’s plate had a menu on it, with all the foods and drinks available listed.

            “Nundu with Red Pepper and Cardamom Jus,” he decided, “with the 12-year-old red wine.” Instantly, his dishes appeared before him, delicately plated and immaculately served.

            “How is young Draco doing?” asked Tom after Lucius had retaken his seat. Dumbledore, of course, had chosen to mingle with the crowd below rather than remain on the High Table. “He graduated Hogwarts recently, I hear.”

            “He is doing very well, Mr. Riddle,” said Lucius, the deferent dip of his head implying the unsaid ‘my Lord’. “He is courting Miss Weasley now.”

            Tom blinked, recalling vaguely the red-haired witch that loathed the Malfoys with passion—and the hatred was returned too, on Draco’s end. Lucius seemed to notice his Lord’s pause, and grimaced, “Yes, Miss Ginevra Weasley. She was a surprising choice.”

            Tom placed his first bite of the Nundu in his mouth. Delicious. “And how does Narcissa feel about Miss Weasley?”

            “She adores her,” admitted Lucius. “I, on the other hand, have my reservations about her intentions. But Draco will not listen—they are in love, or so he says.”

            The Dark Lord smothered a sneer. _Love._ A fool’s delusions. “Is Miss Weasley still in contact with her family?”

            “She is, but their relationship seems strained. She spent Yule at Malfoy Manor,” replied Lucius, not batting an eye at the odd tangent. “She keeps in close contact with her brother, however.”

            “Which?” asked Tom wryly.

            His follower hid a smile. “The youngest—Ronald, I believe.”

            “And is this Ronald close to the rest of his family? His father, for example?”

            Lucius scowled, eyes narrowed in understanding. “Yes, Mr. Riddle.”

            Tom tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “If you believe her interest in Draco is not genuine,” he said carefully, “perhaps if Draco had less access to certain aspects of the Malfoy's, ah, lifestyle, she might be less inclined to continue her farce.”

            Lucius nodded, understanding the implied meaning easily.

          “If you still have trouble, I’m sure Orion will be happy to assist,” murmured Tom.

            “I will be sure to go to him,” said Lucius.

            From there, the conversation drifted to lighter matters. As more wine and beer was drunk, the crowd, too, got more raucous. The formal event was soon devolving into a city-wide party. People were tripping over their feet left and right, in effort to keep up with the fast-paced, jaunty music swirling around the square. Even Lucius’ cheeks had taken on a faint, red tinge.

            Tom, on the other hand, kept himself to a strict maximum of two glasses of wine. Unlike the rest of the citizens, he would be venturing out of the city walls in half an hour or so. He instead amused himself with watching a ruddy-faced Rabastan Lestrange fall face-first into the drinks fountain.

            The pitiful state of his followers, however, became decidedly less amusing when Bellatrix stumbled onto the platform, throwing herself into Dumbledore’s abandoned seat. Tom almost wished it was Dumbledore sitting next to him instead.

            “I will give you the best— _hic_ —night you’ve ever known, my Lord,” slurred the madwoman. “Here, let me give— _hic_ —you a taste… You’re missing out, my Lord…” She threw herself forward, one floppy arm smashing into Tom’s cleaned plate and sending the ceramic to the ground, shattering everywhere. The sound drew attention, but most of the people decided it wasn’t worth their interest and carried out laughing and drinking. An idle flick of his wrist repaired the plate.

            Still, Bellatrix did not stop there. Her head pushed forward intrusively. Tom moved his head away from her alcohol-sodden breath, only to lurch bodily away upon the realisation that she was not aiming for his mouth, but had her eyes set… _lower._

            Tom straightened his robes, trying to retain what was left of his dignity. He refrained from killing Bellatrix right then and there, but when Druella Black stepped forwards, eyeing her daughter with disgust, Tom spoke with cold fury, “If she does that again, I will feed her to the demons.”

            The elder Black woman paled. “My apologies.” She halted her words awkwardly, as though she had just managed to still her tongue before the words ‘my Lord’ slipped out. “This will not happen again,” she promised.

            “If it does, I will know who to blame, I suppose,” he said, his icy stare making it clear he was not referring only to Bellatrix.

            “Yes,” Druella said, swallowing thickly. He swept away, leaving the woman to hiss furiously at Bellatrix, who was practically unconscious at this point.

            He stepped down from the stage, deciding to head for a walk to clear his mind. The celebrations were stifling, with the hot summer warmth combined with the heavy, sour stench of sweat. Tom was eager to leave on his journey, where he need not suffer through Bella’s pitiful attempts at flirting and Dumbledore’s ever-watchful gaze.

            “Ah, Tom!”

            The Dark Lord paused in his stride, fighting a heavy scowl at the voice. But plastered on smile dripping with false friendliness anyway. “Professor Slughorn,” he greeted as warmly as he was able. The rotund man was pushing through the crowd, a sour-looking man with a hunched walk by his side.

            Slughorn chortled, puffing up with self-importance. “Professor, he calls me,” he said to his companion with obvious pride and delight. He turned back to Tom, “No need for that, my boy. I haven’t been your Professor in years! In fact, I daresay you could teach me a few things now…”

            “Surely not,” demurred Tom.

            “You flatter me, Tom!” beamed Slughorn. “Ah, but enough, enough… Tom, I would like you to meet Viktor Krum. He lived in one of Durmstrang’s outlying villages…” Slughorn paused, looking pityingly at Krum. “He was there when the Demon Lord attacked—one of the only survivors, I believe.”

            Tom’s irritation faded away and he straightened, eyeing Krum with more interest. He was a man with striking features—a hard jaw and heavyset brows—but Tom saw the tension in Krum’s body when the Demon Lord was mentioned, the stiffening of his lip. There was hatred there, and given that Krum had seen the Demon Lord’s massacre, it was a well-deserved emotion.

            Krum’s face twisted into a smile, though the expression did not touch his eyes. “Yes,” said the man, his accent thick even in that one word. “There were others who survived, mostly children.”

            Tom had heard of the child survivors of Durmstrang. It had always made him curious… “He spared the children?”

            Krum’s face twisted with fury. He spat on the ground. “If you can call it sparing,” he snarled. “There was nothing left of the people he killed. Limbs and body parts, all over the place—he was merciless, bloodthirsty, _insane._ I would rather have died that day, than have to wake every night dreaming of the screams of my people, how they _begged_ for mercy. What does a Demon Lord know of mercy?” Tom listened, transfixed. Krum clenched and unclenched his fist, then looked Tom straight in the eye. It was as though he was searching for something, and Tom made sure his Occlumency shields were at their strongest.

            Krum, however, seemed to find what he was looking for, for he nodded slowly. “ _Da_ , you are strong… Stronger than the previous Champions—I met them, too. They were proud. Arrogant. I knew they would die. I even told them, and they took offense.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Fools. He tore my  _mai_ _̆_ _ka_ apart before my eyes, split her in two with his magic and tossed her aside. My _bashta_ was but a mist of blood when he was done with him… I can still remember the warm feeling on my face… I can still _taste_ it…”

            “You saw the Demon Lord?” asked Tom sharply.

            “ _Da._ I told no one of it,” said Krum. “But you—you I will tell. You are strong. I see it.”

            “You kept silent. Why?” demanded Tom.

            “If I told, what would I have achieved? Those Champions would have died with or without my information. The last person I told thought that she could be the one to kill the Demon Lord. She went off on her quest, and I never saw the fool again.” The Durmstrang survivor’s eyes were shuttered with grief. Someone close to him, then. But Tom did not care enough to ask who she had been.

            Instead, he asked, “What did he look like?”

            “Like what he was,” replied Krum. “ _Chudovishte._ A monster. Skin as black as any demon you’ve seen before. Hairless. He had scales, and they danced with sunlight, even when they were bathed in blood. But his eyes…” Krum swayed where he stood, his hands shaking slightly as he lost himself in memory. Slughorn steadied the man, his own eyes wide with horror.

            “His eyes?” prompted Tom, fighting back his impatience.

            “A greener colour I have not seen,” said Krum, his soft voice at odds with the hatred of earlier. “I would have thought they were the colour of the Killing Curse, but _ne_ , they were the colour of grass and leaves and spring. They were… beautiful.”

             “Green,” murmured Tom. “I have never seen a demon with green eyes before.”

            The Durmstrang shook his head, his breath leaving him in a long sigh. “I wondered… How could something so hideous have eyes like that? He did not look sane, the Demon Lord. He was like a wild beast—even when curses struck him, he did not falter, as though he felt no pain. Yet, he bled.”

            “Forgive me for asking, Mr. Krum,” said Slughorn, his voice shaky. “But what was his magic like?”

            The other man shuddered, though it was warm and the breeze was non-existent. “Furious. It felt like a tornado, harsh and unforgiving. His very presence lifted pebbles from the ground, whipped sand into my eyes. The earth bent to his will, and I saw him create pillars of stone and crush people beneath them. He was a god, and we were but ants beneath his feet.”

            Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand—but it was not fear he was feeling, but the stirrings of true, genuine interest. This had begun as a means to an end for Tom: kill the Demon Lord, and secure his power. But for the Demon Lord to bend earth to his will… that was not a power that belonged to his supposed race.

            “You will kill him?” said Krum, his eyes hard.

            The Dark Lord only gave a chilling smile in reply.


	5. Justice

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

            Susan dug her nails into the arm of her chair.

_Tap. Tap-tap._

            She glanced to her side, and caught a glimpse of mousy brown hair.

_Tap._

            She looked again, this time her gaze sharpening into a glare.

_Tap-tap._

            It was an older Ravenclaw boy. He’d graduated a couple years ahead of her, but here he was, applying for the same programme, just like her. She wondered if he’d failed the past two years of examinations.

_Tap. Tap._

            Susan wanted to stab his hand with her wand.

            He saw her looking, and his finger froze mid-movement, hovering just above his chair, where he’d been about to tap. Again. Just as he’d been doing for the past twenty _bloody_ minutes.

            He had the gall to smile at her, albeit with a hint of nerves.

            Susan smiled back, all teeth. If her lips were pulled back in a manner reminiscent to a snarl, well, that was entirely an accident.

            He squeaked.

            “Could you stop tapping?” she asked, as politely as she could manage.

            “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. His finger twitched.

            Susan sighed, tipping her head back onto the back of her chair. She admitted, she wasn’t very patient at the moment. Hannah liked to call it her ‘bitch mood’. But the anxiety of this all was burrowing deeper into her with every passing moment. Every time she heard another name being called out as the list moved at a painstakingly slow pace through the ‘A’ family names, her heartbeat seemed to spike. When she listened to those doors shut, it was like listening to a sentencing. A sentencing of her life.

            If she failed this interview, Susan would forever be remembered as the woman who was so incompetent, she couldn’t even get into the Auror programme when her aunt was the head of the department.

            Never mind that the Auror programme was one of the most exclusive, and that there were only twenty spots available, and nearly _two hundred_ people applied yearly. And that her aunt would never play favourites. If anything, she’d be hardest on Susan just to demonstrate her lack of preferential bias.

            “Allan, Marcus,” called the announcer, in his most bored tone yet. Susan twisted her fingers into a knot as she watched a tall, dark-haired boy nearly trip over himself as he hurried towards the doors. The gilded gold doors swung open almost silently, but when they shut, it was with a resounding boom.

            “Do you think he’ll get in?” asked the tapping boy. Susan turned and stared at him. He shrugged uncomfortably at her surprised look. “Do you?”

            She remembered Allan from Hogwarts. He’d muddled along somewhere in the upper-middle end of their cohort. More athletic than academic, but he hadn’t really stood out in any way. He was most well-known for dating Padma Patil and the subsequent drama that ensued when they broke up after two days.

            “No,” she replied. _But he might get lucky_ , she added to herself. She didn’t voice her insecurity, however.

            “You sound sure,” he said. “I think he’ll get in. That’s one less spot for all of us here. Nineteen left.” He laughed, a half-nervous, half-hysterical sound. Susan edged away from him as discreetly as she could. He started tapping again, only this time, it was with both hands and both feet. “I’m never going to get in.”

            Susan opened her mouth, and shut it again, caught off-guard by the admission. It was a common enough doubt—she was certain that everyone in this waiting hall had thought it at least once—but the way he’d said it, he’d sounded devoid of hope. There was a surety in his resignation, and the slump of his shoulders seemed quite genuine. Finally, she managed, “Oh?”

            “It’s my third year in a row applying,” he confided. “The first time, I was so nervous I tripped over my own feet during the duelling component and knocked myself out. The second time, I didn’t even make it into the room. I just had to throw up so badly. I’m feeling it now, too. I think I might throw up and pass out this year, because that does seem to be the trend, doesn’t it? Getting worse and worse every year?”

            “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she said awkwardly.

            “I won’t,” he said. “Viper Savast, by the way.”

            “Susan Bones,” she said, a beat too slow. “Viper?”

            “My mum was obsessed with Peruvian Vipertooth dragons when she had me,” said Savast, sounding glum. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, would you?”

            “She’s my aunt,” said Susan.

            “Amelia Bones is your aunt?” groaned Savast. “You’re a shoo-in for the programme then.”

            “Not likely,” she said, her lips twisting in an effort to smother the irritation in her voice. “My aunt’s really big on fairness. She would never even give me even a hint on what to expect.”

            “I didn’t mean that she would be biased or anything,” he said hastily, looking mortified. “I only meant, you’re Amelia Bones’s _niece_. The woman is amazing. You’re probably really talented. Unlike me.”

            The little knot of annoyance in her stomach tightened even more. “You’re not the first to say that,” she said, her tone taking on a snappish edge. “But just because I’m related to Auntie Amelia doesn’t mean anything about how good I am at duelling.”

            “Oh,” said Savast. He paused for a long while. “Sorry.”

            The apology was phrased almost like a question, and Susan sighed. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s not your fault, I’m just stressed.”

            He gave an uncertain smile. “Right.”

            “Anderson, Dahlia.”

            Susan looked to the front of the hall and saw a short figure rise from amidst the crowd of candidates. She tracked the Anderson’s walk, steady and calm, to the doors. Anderson seemed sure of herself, which reminded Susan of how nervous she was. Her anxiety had faded while she had been talking to Savast—mainly replaced with irritation—but it returned now in full force.

            When the doors shut again, she glanced at Savast. He, too, looked much paler than he had been a minute ago. The frantic tapping of his hands and feet had slowed to a sedate pace, but was picking up again. Even his lip was starting to tremble.

            He swayed in his seat, and Susan was struck with a real concern that he might actually pass out before his name was called.

            “Maybe you should get some Calming Draught or something,” she suggested, mostly out of pity.

            “Allergic,” he said, almost gasping the word.

            “Well then, chew on some Lady’s Mantle,” said Susan. “It has a calming effect.”

            “I-I don’t have any Lady’s Mantle with me now,” said Savast, looking quite devastated.

            She took in the defeated bow of his chin and the suspicious shine in his eyes, and sighed. “Here,” she said, fishing out a vial of the herb from her robes. She had been saving it for herself, but Savast was clearly in need of it more than she was. Even so, she couldn’t help but think about how clammy her palms felt and how her heartbeat seemed permanently elevated as Savast took the vial from her hands.

            But he looked so grateful, and his eyes suddenly seemed to resemble a puppy’s so much that Susan couldn’t bring herself to really regret her decision.

            “How calming is it?” asked Savast as he chewed on the root with such desperation she wondered how he could still speak. Susan eyed his constantly fidgeting fingers and the sheen of sweat on his neck.

            “As good as a Calming Draught,” she lied.

~*~

            “Bones, Susan.”

            “Good luck,” whispered Savast. He clasped her hand with as much reassurance as he could muster. Her hand slid out of his with a slickness that Susan wasn’t sure came from her palms or his. Maybe both. She fisted her palms by her side and marched to the doors.

            “In you go,” said the announcer with a vague gesture, his eyes remaining fixed on his _Witch Weekly_ issue.

            “Right,” muttered Susan. “You can do this.” The doors glided over the smooth marble floors, and Susan swallowed hard. She let her nerves wash over her one last time before she started ruthlessly suppressing the twisted ball of anxiety and tension that roiled in her stomach. She focused on her breathing. She focused on how the light streamed in from the domed ceiling of the examination hall. She focused on making sure her steps were measured and her shoulders not too stiff as she walked towards the long table where her examiners sat in a row.

            She could see Thoros Nott on the far right end. Then, Potter—she’d heard he’d lost an eye, but hadn’t quite believed it until she saw the eyepatch—Marchbanks in the middle, Shacklebolt and her Auntie Amelia on the left end. Auntie Amelia met her gaze, and though her expression did not shift, her aunt blinked once, slow and deliberate.

            That minute action was somehow reassuring, and Susan found the knotted ball in her abdomen loosened. It was easier to breathe, and the knee-shaking nervousness she had squashed down seemed to deflate a little.

            “Susan Bones?” said Griselda Marchbanks, sharp eyes peering up at Susan from a wizened face.

            “Yes,” she replied. The sound came out too hoarse, mangling the word, and she hastily cleared her throat. “Yes.”

            Shacklebolt gave her a smile, which she returned, though hers was more of a weak imitation.

            Marchbanks shuffled a few papers on her desk. Susan caught a glimpse of her photograph, her face blinking out of its frame, looking as serious as could be.

            The seconds ticked by in silence. She fought to stay as still as she could, unwilling to so much as shift her weight from one foot to the other. She’d seen the Auror Guard in the inner city before, and they’d looked like statues as they stood there, guarding the entrances into the Council meetings. Yet, their eyes were alert, darting from side to side, tracking any sudden movements.

            When she was little, Susan liked to practice being as still as them. Now, she was grateful for this, because it made the mounting pressure of the silence almost bearable.

            “You graduated Hogwarts in June this year?”

            “Yes, Madam Marchbanks.” Susan silently thanked Merlin her voice came out normal this time.

            “An Outstanding on your Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT, I see… And an Outstanding on Potions, as well… An Acceptable for Arithmancy, Exceeds Expectations in Herbology… Excellent,” finished Marchbanks. She dropped the papers onto the table and fixed her eyes on Susan.

            Susan fought the urge to flinch backwards.

            “Why do you want to be an Auror?”

            She floundered for a moment. It was a question she had expected, and one that she had crafted an answer for beforehand, but the bluntness with which Marchbanks asked it was off-putting. “I-I want to protect the people of Hogwarts,” blurted Susan. “I’ve always admired the Auror Guard, and I want to help protect this city from the threat of demons.”

            It was far from her pre-prepared answer, but the examiners didn’t care. Or, at least, they didn’t seem to. Marchbanks, in particular, had a blank expressionless face that never so much as twitched in indication of her thoughts. She only nodded once, and moved with swiftness to her next question. “In the course of an Auror’s career, you will also be in charge of maintaining public order in Hogwarts. It’s not only demons you have to fight—are you prepared to apprehend, and if necessary, kill humans?”

            Susan swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry. “I—yes.”

            Marchbanks narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

            “Yes,” she said, trying to sound more confident this time.

            “You have information on a potential traitor within the Auror ranks. How do you proceed?”

            “I would ensure that this information is accurate. If it is, I will turn the Auror in.”

            “You have apprehended a suspect. He or she confesses to the crime. But they have only done so because they were desperate for Galleons and their child is dying. Do you turn a blind eye?”

            “Depending on the severity of the crime. If the suspect’s crime has fairly minimal consequences, I would turn a blind eye. If the suspect has committed a murder, for example, I would apprehend him or her regardless of the circumstances.”

            “And if you have the choice,” interjected Shacklebolt, his deep voice cool and professional, “between turning in a Council member and risking the safety of your family, and not turning said Council member in and risking the safety of the people, which would you choose?”

            A minute shift to Shacklebolt’s right drew Susan’s attention. Potter had leaned forward slightly in his seat, his eye affixed on her. “Er, I’d…” Susan chewed on her lip, turning her gaze away from Potter and focusing on her aunt instead. An impassive face stared back at her—it could have been made from granite, and Susan wouldn’t have been surprised. Cold, empty eyes bore into hers. “I’d choose my people.”

            “Funny,” said Potter. His one hazel eye was piercing. “They always say that. But you don’t really know until you’re put in that situation, do you?”

            Susan looked at her aunt again. “I do know,” she said, firm. A ghost of a smile danced across Auntie Amelia’s lips.

            Marchbanks pressed the tip of her quill into her chin as she studied Susan. “Very good,” she said finally.

            And the questions continued.

~*~

            He was waiting for her when she left the building.

            “You did well today,” he said. “Shouldn’t really be telling you this, but you’ve got a good shot.”

            Susan tried not to beam. “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she replied. She glanced at the building. Its large doors were thrown open, set in the old stone walls. Within, smooth floors stretched into a wide expanse, a chandelier hanging over the centre of the hall. A few people milled about, some stressed-looking candidates, and others workers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “Isn’t your presence required for the examinations?”

            Potter shrugged at her, running a hand through his dark hair lazily. He scrunched it up, making it even messier than it was before. He looked distracted, stressed. “We have breaks every couple of hours. Shacklebolt drew the next candidate, so the rest of us get an extended rest while he finishes up the duel,” explained the man. He paused. “I did want to speak to you about something else.”

            “Okay,” said Susan, suppressing a frown. What could an accomplished Auror such as James Potter want with her? He was even on the Council, for Merlin’s sake.

            “You said in the interview that you would choose your people over your family,” said Potter. “This has no bearing on your Auror applications whatsoever. Consider it… a personal interest of mine.” Susan tried not to shift, but the line of conversation was setting off an unease that swirled within her belly. Potter’s good eye bore into hers, assessing. Determined. “Were you telling the truth?”

            Susan scowled. “Yes, Mr. Potter,” she said, feeling a little insulted. “I wouldn’t lie in my interview.”

            “Good.” He rolled backwards onto the heels of his feet, and it was only then that she realised how close he had gotten, his chest practically inches from her. “We need people like you.”

            “Who is we?” asked Susan, folding her arms across her chest. She glanced inside the Department, half-hoping that her aunt was there. But it was only a blur of unknown faces in there.

            “A group of people interested in protecting Hogwarts,” said Potter, his voice lowered. Susan had to lean in closer to hear his words over the buzz of conversation as people moved in and out of the building. “We could use someone like you—you have good morals, and you’re willing to do what it takes.”

            “Protecting Hogwarts from the demon threat?” asked Susan, frowning. “The Guard Patrol does that—Champion Riddle is doing that right now. He left to hunt down the Demon Lord a week ago.”

            Potter’s remaining eye seemed to twitch at the mention of Riddle. Vaguely, she recalled that Potter lost his eye during the contest against Riddle for the Champion’s position. “Riddle won’t succeed,” said Potter. She almost missed the bitterness that traced his voice. “Anyway, I’m not talking about the demon threat. The whole city is prepared for that—I’m talking about something else. The _Dark Lord_.”

            Susan stiffened, her eyes darting around. No one seemed to have heard him. “Mr. Potter,” she hissed, “I realise I am in no position to be talking to you like this, but _are you mad_? You’re going to set off a city-wide panic! At any rate, there is no Dark Lord. There hasn’t been one since Salazar Slytherin.”

            “But there is one now,” he insisted. “There is unrest in the city, you know this. Rumours of the Dark rallying, laws being passed through the Wizengamot about lessening restrictions on Dark magic, increasing funding for its research. Someone is behind all of this—a Dark Lord.” His breath was a low hiss of air as he whispered this to her. Susan could see the fervor in his eye, the passion that underlay his voice. Her hands clasped tighter on her arms. “Your aunt is uneasy. She _knows_ that something is wrong, too.”

            “You have no proof,” said Susan, and try as she might, she still sounded shaky even to her own ears. The accusation of a Dark Lord was a heavy one, one she hadn’t expected in her lifetime. And here she was, not even an Auror, just a candidate, hearing about possibly the biggest conspiracy since Gellert Grindelwald.

            “Look, I don’t expect you to trust me based on only my word,” said Potter. “Go home. Think about it. Research. Whatever you want, but you’ll see the pattern. It’s there for all to see, and you only need to look to find it. But you mustn't tell anyone about this conversation. Not even your aunt.”

            “My aunt is the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said Susan, glaring. “If I find anything about a Dark Lord, if you know that there is a Dark Lord on the rise, my aunt should know about it, too.”

            “ _No_ ,” he snapped. “It’s precisely because of her position that I haven’t gone to her. Your aunt is bound by the law to suppress any evidence about a Lord on the rise. Did you really think that there has only been one Dark wizard since Slytherin to try and take up the mantle of Lord? Of course not! The Council has been suppressing information about Lords for a thousand years, and they’ll _continue to do so_. If I had gone to her about a Dark Lord, she would have the Aurors work quietly to investigate and apprehend the Lord.”

            “Isn’t that what you want?” she demanded. “Arresting this Dark Lord, if he even exists, isn’t that the whole point?”

            He shook his head. “This Lord is different. He has eyes everywhere—in the Ministry, in the Auror Guard, in the Patrol Guard… his spies whisper into the ears of anybody important in that building,” Potter jabbed a finger at the Ministry’s foreboding structure, “and if we told your aunt about this, _he_ will find out.”

            “My aunt is trustworthy,” said Susan stonily. “And if you can’t trust her, then I can’t trust you.”

            She turned to leave, but Potter’s hand shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around her arm. “I do trust her,” he said quietly. “But I don’t trust the Aurors. Some of them support this Dark Lord, and we cannot risk them infiltrating the investigation. I told you, your aunt knows something is wrong. Why do you think she hasn’t gathered her Aurors either?”

            Susan hesitated. It was quick, a bare flickering of uncertainty, but Potter pounced on it.

            “Don’t tell her about this conversation,” he said. “Right now, she’s shielded by the fact that she doesn’t _know_ for certain that a Dark Lord exists. But if she does, or if a citizen comes to her with the suspicion of one, then she must follow the law. And if she follows the law, we’ve as good as lost this war against him.”

            “And who is ‘him’, anyway?” asked Susan. In her mind, the word ‘war’ rang like a heavy bell, echoing numbly throughout her body.

            It was Potter who hesitated this time, his answer arriving half a heartbeat too slow. “We don’t know.” She wondered if she should call him out on his lie, but he pressed on before she could decide, “Think about what I said, okay? You know where to find me if you want to be a part of protecting the city.”

            Susan met his gaze. His conviction burned bright—he certainly didn’t look like he was lying. Yet, unease still stirred in her gut, and she wondered if the conviction she saw was instead delusion.

            “I’m not saying that you have to join, fight or even contact me again outside of official business,” said Potter after the silence stretched on. “I’m just asking you to think about this.”

            Reluctantly, Susan nodded.


	6. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank everyone who has given kudos and reviews, subscribed and bookmarked! The response to the story has been great so far, and I really appreciate it :) 
> 
> Also, I published this chapter exactly one week from the last time I uploaded a chapter onto AO3, which is, honestly, pretty amazing for me. It's unlikely that the next chapter will be published so soon, though, partly because I'll be going on holiday, and partly because, well, it's not complete yet and it takes me ages to write a chapter (I procrastinate. A lot). 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading, everyone! :D

_"... increasingly unstable. Narcissa caught her packing her bags; I believe she may have been trying to follow you..."_ \- From Lucius Malfoy to Tom Riddle.

~*~

Nagini cantered into the village, Tom seated regally atop her. It was one of the outlying villages toward the north-east of Hogwarts, the last before the flat terrain blended into the mountains and rocky cliffs of Voren Pass. The pass itself stretched nearly the entirety of the north-eastern borders of Hogwarts, marking the end of its territory and the start of Beauxbaton’s.

        The sun dipped lower, more than half already obscured by mountains. The village would be his rest stop for the night. Tom guided Nagini to the closest inn, though she did not need much of his guidance. She shot him an irritated look when he tugged at her reins gently, as though to say, _I know_.

        Tom sighed. It was like having a teenager for a horse.

        As he trotted past the villagers, most of them did not bother to spare him so much as a glance. They were used to travellers. All the merchants travelling between Hogwarts and Beauxbatons would pass through here. It was the only village for miles. Tom himself had been here a few times in the past, sent on diplomatic missions to Beauxbatons. The inns here were nearly always bustling with business, and the markets were alive with activity and trade that was rarely seen anywhere outside the capital cities.

        It was also for this reason that this village was one of the more heavily guarded ones.

        Yet, Tom frowned as he made his way into the small town. The townsfolk looked withdrawn and harried. Their eyes darted about warily, and they went about their business with a vibrating, nervous tension. He corrected his earlier observation of the villagers—it was not disinterest in him that they were showing. Their eyes flickered around him anxiously, glancing at him but never lingering. When they saw him returning their gazes, they flinched away and hunched into themselves.

        They were afraid of him.

        Tom surveyed the town carefully, one hand shifting to rest on his lap, mere inches from the hilt of his wand. There were no patrols around.

        He passed by the markets, where a stretch of stalls was set up but no merchants were trading. A cold feeling prickled down his spine. Nagini seemed to sense this, because she nickered quietly, her tail swishing back and forth so violently Tom could feel the wind of it on his back.

        “Hush,” he murmured, patting her neck.

        She made another noise, but calmed slightly.

        Tom slid off Nagini when they reached the stable of the inn Tom was staying at. He secured her for the night, placing the usual preventative wards that protected against stealing—and more. The atmosphere of the village made him more wary than usual.

        His wariness was proven right when he walked towards the inn entrance and a child bumped into him roughly. The child, a weedy little creature, yelped out in pain in almost the same instant, his fingers pulling back to reveal burnt tips with small welts. Tom gave the boy a narrow-eyed gaze, but the child only glared back, defiant, before scampering away.

        The feeling of _wrongness_ only intensified when he entered the inn. The once rowdy bar was sparkling clean, hardly a soul in sight. The innkeeper brightened when she saw Tom, bustling around the counter to greet him eagerly.

        “Here to stay a night, are you?” she asked, watery blue eyes taking in his tailored clothes greedily.

        Tom nodded. “I believe it was a Sickle for a night, wasn’t it, Mrs. Jefferson?”

        Mrs. Jefferson switched personas as quick as lightning, her business mind shrouding over with suspicion. She folded her arms in front of her thick, muscular frame. “How’d you know my name?”

        “I’ve visited before,” explained Tom. The woman pursed her lips, dissatisfied. He flashed her a sheepish smile, putting as much boyish charm as he could into it. She relaxed marginally, but Tom could see she was still on guard. “It was right before Samhain, I believe. I was on my way to Ilvermony as part of the Hogwarts delegation.”

        Recognition flickered in her eyes, and her suspicion melted away. But it was instead replaced by a different look—resentment. “Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” she scowled.

        Tom fought a twitch of irritation, keeping the smile on his face. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jefferson. I should have.”

        “Never mind that,” said the innkeeper, “it’s five Sickles a night.”

        Tom blinked. “Five Sickles?” he repeated, trying not to sound too outraged.

        The lines of Mrs. Jefferson’s face deepened. “Yes, it’s hard times around here nowadays. Things are more expensive.” He briefly considered leaving for another inn, but she cut that train of thought off almost immediately. “It’s at least this price for every other inn. It’ll be a rough winter, I expect.”

        “Very well,” said Tom reluctantly, his mouth filled with a sour aftertaste. “Hard times, you say?”

        “Aye, it’s been rough. We don’t get too many customers in here nowadays—the merchants don’t want to pay the new taxes, see? Not that you lot from Hogwarts care.”

        “New taxes?”

        Mrs. Jefferson practically _sneered_. Tom’s smile turned fixed—how dare this _innkeeper_ treat him with such disrespect? But he held on to his friendly persona, maintaining through sheer force of will and forcing his rage back down. It felt like a simmering ball of lead in his gut. “Yes, the new taxes, boy! Thought you was one of them politicians?”

        “Not quite,” lied Tom. “I mostly just run errands.”

        “Hmm,” said the woman, eyeing him with distaste. “Can’t get a promotion, eh? It might be because you don’t bother keeping up with things like that.” Tom’s teeth ground together furiously. "Started a couple months back. We got a notice from the new lord, see? He’s a right bastard, this one. Said he’d been appointed by the Council to govern this village and the surrounding region. Took up in that abandoned fortress in the mountains.

        “It was fine at first, nothing changed. Then one day he sends a messenger into town. Farmers have to pay tribute, he says. A small portion of their produce and livestock. Some of them refused—next thing we know, the guards come knocking on their doors, trashing their homes and their farms. Old Thompson the next village over had a year’s worth of produce taken from him.” Mrs. Jefferson shot Tom a glare, as though this was all his fault.

        Tom ignored her, frowning. He _knew_ that the Council had not set a new tax, and had most certainly not appointed a new lord in the region. The most alarming thing, however, was that even in the past few months, while all of this had apparently been going on, there had been no indication that anything had been wrong here.

        “A week later, he sends another messenger. He’s raising taxes, he says. It was ten Galleons a year before—now it’s fifteen. That made more than one person angry, but no one wanted a repeat of what happened to Thompson. So we let it go. We paid.”

        Mrs. Jefferson walked back around the bar. She poured out two flasks of mead, shoving one at Tom with ill-grace and taking a big swig for herself. She smacked her lips noisily. “But two weeks after that, he sends _another_ messenger. Now, he wants the merchants to pay a trade tariff. For every Galleon they earn, he wants six Sickles.” She looked at him expectantly.

        Tom played along, allowing his jaw to drop in an appropriate expression of shock and disgust. In fact, the expression wasn’t even entirely fake. “That’s highway robbery!” he gasped.

        Mrs. Jefferson nodded, the story continuing to pour out of her. Her cheeks were beginning to flush red, whether from the mead or from her outrage, Tom wasn’t sure. “That was about a month ago. At some point, the merchants stopped coming. We innkeepers got no business now—even the brothels are suffering. He must’ve stopped paying the guards, too, because that lot pissed off a couple o’ weeks ago.”

        “Why didn’t you send word to Hogwarts? Surely the Council would not stand for such abuse on their lands,” said Tom.

        “We did send word,” said Mrs. Jefferson indignantly. “Never heard back from the Council, did we? They ignored us, the bastards!”

        Tom frowned, taking a long sip from his mead. Someone was preventing the situation here from reaching the Council then. But it still did not explain everything. The merchants that stopped trading at the village would have continued on to Hogwarts. And merchants _gossiped_ —they were worse than the Hogwarts staff in that respect.

        Mrs. Jefferson considered him for a moment. “They didn’t tell you anything, either, did they?” she said. “Bastards, the lot of them. You want some supper?”

        Tom took another sip from his flask. “No,” he replied, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

        She scowled at him again, but he was too deep in thought to notice. “It’s a Sickle for the mead,” sniffed Mrs. Jefferson.

        He let out an absent, humming noise, digging the silver from his pocket. “The abandoned fortress in the mountains, you say?”

        “Aye,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.

        “He sends a messenger down every time? What does the messenger look like?”

        “It’s a different one every time,” Mrs. Jefferson said, shrugging. “Had a blonde one first. Then a redhead. Then a girl with black hair.”

        “I see.”

        She frowned at him. “You aren’t thinking of going up there, are you? Boy like you can’t go up against a big lord like that. You won’t be able to do anything but piss him off, and I don’t want any trouble when you do.”

        Tom laughed lightly—that seemed to make her more uncomfortable. He didn’t, however, say anything more.

~*~

        Tom cursed.

        A demon.

        It was not the wizard or witch he'd been expecting, but instead a demon that was waiting in the abandoned fortress. He could practically taste the foul, unnatural stench of demonic magic in the air the moment he'd entered this clearing.

        There was magic in concentration here. It prickled his skin and curled the ends of his hair. Magic, all kinds of it, was like electricity. It sent crawling, tingling thrills throughout the body when one touched a pure, neutral source of magic. It breathed like it was alive, and tasted both sweet and bitter. The magic here was the same, in a way, but Tom could feel the wrongness that underlay it.

        When a demon cast magic, it always left evidence of its own kind. There weren't many who could feel magic the way that Tom could, but those that understood always shuddered at its memory. Magic was supposed to flow, lash out wild and free. But demonic magic was like sludge on the skin, like magic was resisting the pull to _become_ , to form.

        The clearing, too, was unnaturally silent. The wind blew, but there were no sounds of life. Leaves and flowers seemed duller. It seemed as though nature itself was bearing the burden of such high concentrations of demonic magic.

        Tom whispered, " _Ostende mihi_." His spell washed over the clearing, tingeing the grass and foliage a dull red. For a moment, nothing happened.

        Then strands of light began to appear all around him. They stretched like a web in the clearing, tangled and complex, fraying and flickering. Like a dome, they curved high over Tom's head, stretching toward where the town lay on the bottom of the mountains. His spell petered out before he could see the ends of where this magic stretched, but it was enough for Tom to know what he was dealing with.

        Wards.

        But they were strange—or perhaps, more accurately, they were flawed. Holes spotted throughout the shimmering barrier, and there were knots where it seemed like the wards had gotten confused and tangled within themselves. He couldn't even identify what exactly these wards were meant to do.

        Tom paced around the edge of the clearing as he examined the magic. He could see the demonic influence in them, in the dark stain that ran like thick sewage beneath the golden light of natural magic. He dismissed it, looking deeper into the magic for what he wanted. And... there.

        He tugged the tip of his wand up, and pulled the magic towards him. The ward came reluctantly, refusing to go any further when it was a few inches from his face, like fabric stretched to its limit. Tom twirled his wand and the strand of magic spun with it. He hummed, nodding to himself before flicking his wand. The ward snapped back into place.

        A Forgetfulness ward, tied with a Muggle-Repelling ward. Two simple wards that kept the Council oblivious of the state of this town for months. The Muggle-Repelling ward ensured that most merchants turned away and never even thought to pass through this town. The Forgetfulness ward made it so that the few merchants who were wizards were... encouraged not to speak of what they saw.

        The worst part was that they looked nothing like how a Forgetfulness and Muggle-Repelling ward ought to look. Knots of magic where there shouldn't be, criss-crossing lines that were tearing holes in the system.

        It was laughably pathetic.

        Tom didn't believe in miracles, but these two wards right here were proving him wrong. They could have failed. They _should_ have failed.

        But they didn't.

        The castor was either a genius working off a very flawed knowledge of human magic, or a lucky fool. Tom was half-certain that the location of those knots of magic could not at all be predicted, and thus, was inclined to believe the latter. But he couldn't be sure without a closer look at the base runic sequence.

        He just had to get to that demon.     

~*~

        Harry Evandel lounged against crumbling stone, draped gracelessly over the balcony. His face rested in the nook of his elbow, staring ahead in abject boredom. One finger drew looping circles in the thick layer of dust that coated the ruins, before it was lifted up before his face. He stared at the grey flecks against his pale skin, and puffed once. The dust swirled away, gleaming with a thousand different colours as they drifted into a ray of sunlight streaming through the cracked ceiling of the ancient fortress.

        His ear perked up suddenly, large and pointed at the tip. The body part looked entirely alien on his humanoid body, giving away his demonic heritage. He could hear sounds towards the east. Rumbling sounds, the crack of spellfire, yells and chanting—a battle.

        His body snapped into alertness, two ears swivelling and twisting like a cat's. The boredom on his expression had vanished altogether. He darted along the corridors with a loping ease, hopping over rubble and broken stone without a thought. The sounds of the battle drew closer, guiding him through the labyrinth of hallways, deeper into the fortress—there was a human’s voice, male. And a demon, low and guttural. Another male.

        “What do we have here?” murmured Harry. The duel was happening below him, and he had arrived conveniently at a corridor that overlooked the abandoned hall. A human wizard was fighting a demon shaman—though fighting seemed to be an inaccurate description. Slaughtering, perhaps. Harry grinned, leaning forward in his excitement. The human wasn’t just good; he was a bloody _genius_. He looked nearly _bored_ as he fought. He lashed out spell after spell, chaining magic together with incredible ease, adapting to his opponent’s futile efforts at resistance without batting an eye.

        In contrast, the demon shaman was weakening with every second that passed. Black blood splashed onto the floor as the demon stumbled around, trying to avoid the relentless spellfire. But it was in vain. The human was simply too strong. He was only playing—a nick here, a slash there, until there were a hundred cuts in the demon’s hide, but nowhere vital. All the while only using a wand, even though there was a staff strapped to his back, and surely more weapons hidden in his cloak.

        If this human wasn’t the notorious Champion, Harry would wear Dobby’s socks for a year.

        The human—and likely Champion—twisted to the left as the demon sent forth a wave of red energy, while using his blood to draw symbols on the cracked stone floor. The runes pulsed black, but it was weak. A dark shield shimmered into existence, flickering and wavering uncertainly. One spell from the human pierced through the shield with ease, pummelling into the demon’s hide like an arrow tearing through paper.

        Harry tilted his head, examining the demon closer. He should probably save the pathetic thing—the demon was kin, after all. Well, half-kin. But… _ah_. He remembered this demon. Valanc. A traitor who thought he could rally sympathisers and oppose the Demon Lord’s rule. The Demon Lord, of course, had crushed that foolish thought, and obliterated his allies. Valanc, however, had escaped and vanished.

        Harry stayed his hand. Valanc had renounced his loyalties—this Champion could do with him as he liked; Harry had no love for traitors.

        “Enough,” said the human, his voice smooth and cold. His expression was one of the most remarkable mixtures of contempt and condescension. “I am bored now.”

        “You won’t kill me!” shrieked the pathetic demon. He was collapsed on the ground now, clawed hands clutching at his wounds in an attempt to stem his bleeding. It was useless; he had too many cuts and not enough hands. “I will not be felled by some pathetic human! Not even their Champion could defeat me—I am the most fearsome, the strongest—”

        Harry rolled his eyes.

        The Champion seemed to be of the same mind, because his next words were, “ _Crucio_.”

        The demon screamed, and his torturer seemed to revel in it. Harry wondered at the thinly-veiled expression of delight that twisted the Champion's face—the other Champions had squirmed at the thought of torture, their noble, righteous morals refusing to allow them such cruelty.

        Truly, this Tom Riddle was quite unexpected. More similar to the demons he was tasked to kill than the humans of his kin.

        Riddle lifted his wand. Valanc's pitiful sobs echoed throughout the fortress, but they went ignored. Riddle stalked closer, his boots squelching as they sank into the trail of black blood left by Valanc. "Tell me, what runic sequence did you use to construct those wards?"

        The wards? Harry frowned. He'd noticed them, certainly, but hadn't thought they were created by Valanc—frankly, Harry's opinion of Valanc's magical abilities was such that he hadn't thought the demon capable of more than a Levitation Charm.

        Valanc spat on Riddle's boots.

        Riddle glowered at the stain on the polished leather. Harry could have sworn the human was pouting, and stifled a laugh at the thought.

        " _Crucio_."

        The screams bounced off the walls again. Harry sighed and tipped his head backwards, taking quiet pleasure in the noise. He wasn't really one for torture, but Valanc was a special case.

        "The runic sequence," said Riddle.

        Valanc didn't reply. Harry couldn't really blame him—the Cruciactus Curse was still in effect, and he doubted the demon had even heard Riddle's demand. He also did not doubt that Riddle was perfectly aware of this.

        Finally, the human seemed to tire of the torture. He flicked his wand, and suspended a limp-bodied demon in the air. Valanc twitched and spasmed, his limbs jerking uncontrollably from the after-effects of his torture. Riddle pointed his wand at the Valanc's hooked, bloody nose, unnaturally red eyes boring into murky yellow.

        " _Legilimens_."

        Riddle plowed through his victim's mind with little care. Harry could tell from the way Valanc's eyes rolled around, the gathering of blood-tinged foam at his ugly lips, the black that dribbled from his nose and ears. When he was done, he threw aside the demonic form. Valanc wasn't even twitching anymore—Harry suspected Riddle had ruined his mind so thoroughly that his body wasn't even capable of moving.

        Riddle rolled his neck, as though stretching after a nice, invigorating exercise. He didn't even spare a glance for Valanc when he lazily shot off a Killing Curse. Green death enveloped the body, though Valanc's mind was already dead, the body just didn't realise it yet. There was mercy in killing the body that Harry was surprised Riddle gave.

        And now...

        Harry sighed. It was a pity, really. He _liked_ this human. The skills he had, the sheer power and talent rolling off of him… it was fascinating. But this human was also chosen to kill the Demon Lord. And Harry could never let that happen.

        Some days, he really hated his job.

        Though… the Champion did seem quite strong. And he did have a few tricks up his sleeve that Harry had never seen before. Maybe it would be wiser to follow him for a little longer. Learn his tactics, his strengths, his weaknesses. And when he had learnt all he could, he could kill the human when he was vulnerable.

        Yes, this could work.

        The human below stalked towards Harry’s fallen kin, nudging the body aside with the toe of his boot. He bent down, examining the runes the demon had painted on his hide with interest. Idly, Harry wondered if he ought to interrupt, lest any of their kind’s secrets were revealed to the humans. But he decided that anything Valanc knew was unlikely to be important.

        A strange sound, rumbling and throaty, distracted him from his thoughts.

        " _Let me rip you_..." The voice was sibilant, made up of hisses and thin, hollow breath. " _Let me kill you... Come to me... Come to me_..."

        Harry frowned. He turned around.

        And found himself face-to-face with a massive maw lunging towards him, monstrous teeth mere inches from his face. He caught a flash of a forked tongue—though he had _felt_ more than seen the forked tongue, and wasn’t that just a horrible sensation, not to mention the _breath_ —and poisonous green scales.

        Harry couldn’t help it. He screamed, leaping backwards and away, because those teeth were scary. It was more out of surprise than anything, but he dearly hoped Hermione never found out about this; he’d never hear the _end_ of it.

        His heel snagged on the railing of the balcony as he did so, and he tripped, falling and flailing through thin air, only saved from crashing on his face by his reflexes. He twisted his body around mid-air, landing on his feet. He winced as the impact travelled up his legs.

        “Ow,” he mumbled. Then he remembered who he had landed in front of.

        Harry looked up, his face carefully blank, meeting the striking eyes of the human Champion. The man blinked back at him, an owlish look on his face and a slack jaw hanging low. Somehow, Harry got the feeling that it was a rare occasion indeed when Riddle ever looked _that_ astonished.

        Though Harry didn't think his expression was much better.

        The moment, which probably lasted all of a second, felt like an endless stretch of awkward silence and snapping tension.

        His mind blank and devoid of any clever plots and ideas, Harry said the only thing he could think of: "Hello." He waved a feeble hand and tried for a smile, but it came out stiff. "Er, nice to meet you?"

        Riddle blinked.


	7. Evandel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are graphic depictions of violence and gore in this chapter. It shouldn't be too bad, but if you are squeamish and/or vegetarian, I advise you to proceed with caution.

" _… observed Potter and Black in the lower towns of Hogwarts, looking as though they were trying to pass unnoticed. Lucius also saw Potter speaking very seriously to Amelia Bones' niece outside the Ministry. I have once more enclosed Lucius's letter, and written down Scabior's account for you. He's illiterate if you would recall._ " - From Orion Black to Tom Riddle.

~*~

Tom had barely registered a short, sharp burst of a scream before a figure dropped in front of him, landing with remarkable agility.

The stranger was saying something. Tom heard the vague, awkward attempt at greeting, but he did not reply. His eyes were wide as he took in the new arrival.

The first assessment of it told Tom that it was not human. Its ears jutted outwards, too large and too pointed. Bright green irises were split in half by slitted pupils. When it spoke, Tom saw two fangs, small but evidently inhuman. His first thought was that the being was a vampire—yet it stood in broad daylight, pale skin almost aglow beneath the spots of sunlight that shone through the cracks in the ceiling. Distinctly male, though its frame was mostly hidden beneath a thick, shapeless cloak.

"What—" Tom cut himself off, stilling. There was a strange hissing noise. It was low and sibilant—the voice of a mere snake, yet he felt an inexplicable unease. Then a smell hit his nostrils, and he grimaced at it. It was pungent and thick, like the smell of the sewage that ran beneath Hogwarts. Tom's eyes darted around, but he saw nothing.

Tom paused. He saw nothing; he was alone.

He cursed. Where did that strange—

Suddenly, he froze, his head tipped upwards and eyes fixed on a horrific sight. Distantly, Tom felt a sense of realisation as understanding of  _why_  that creature had screamed in the first place clicked.

A pair of large, yellow eyes glared down at him. But that was not the worst of it. The eyes belonged to a reptilian beast of some sort, hideous in its vivid green scales. A crown of spiked horns ringed its triangular head, each large enough to impale a grown man.

He felt a stiffness settle in him. His fingertips and toes felt the cold first, a numbness accompanied by a chill of realisation. The mesmerising gaze seemed to compel Tom to maintain the eye contact. He watched with a distant, muted horror as vicious fangs drew closer until he could see yellowed venom dripping down them. A tongue, forked and purple, slithered out of its hideous maw, and Tom could feel its wet, acrid breath brush across his face, the source of the smell he had noticed earlier.

The numbness had crept up to his knuckles. His feet felt like lead beneath him.

The snake's jaw stretched impossibly wide, and Tom felt an old, all-encompassing coldness spread deep within him again—not the coldness of the snake's gaze, but something else. Something he had felt long ago and vowed never to forget. It made his hands shake, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. It crept up against his senses, pressing into him with its icy, rattling breath.

_Death was near._

Tom snarled, ripping his eyes away. The thrum of terror in his head slowed, its high-pitched wail becoming a mute thing, suppressed through sheer concentration and relief.

He felt the shift in the air, the snake's realisation that its prey had escaped its trap. Keeping his eyes averted, Tom leapt away, staff thrust out with a shout of, " _Praesidio_!"

A pulsing, purple shield burst into existence but faltered a beat when Tom stumbled on his feet. He looked at his hands, grimacing when he saw the paleness of his skin, a greying shade like it was turning into stone. It was likely that his feet were the same way, from how heavy they felt.

Petrification.

The snake's jaws slammed straight into his shield. Tom could see straight down the tunnel of its ugly, purpled throat as it snapped futilely against his shield, could see the shine of its flesh and saliva.

His lips pulled back into a semi-permanent snarl. His weakness still clawed at him—watching death approach and feeling  _helpless_ … He twisted his staff so that it was upright and one end hovered just inches above the ground. " _Terra ruptor_ ," he hissed. His shield flickered as his magic drew away to power the new spell, and in the next moment, it vanished entirely. But in the same instant, he had struck the ground with the butt of his staff, and the very earth shifted beneath his feet.

The snake reared back, shrieking and spitting. Half of its massive body had still been draped over the second-floor balcony, and now, as the old ruins shook and crumbled around them, its tail slid over the edge and thudded onto the floor. The snake writhed on its side, struggling to upright itself.

In quick succession, Tom fired off a chain of spells. But the snake's scales were too thick, and his curses washed off its body like water. He grimaced when even the Cruciactus Curse only caused the beast to spasm before it turned malevolent eyes on Tom.

He changed tactics. " _Reducto._ " The red spell shot off at the ceiling directly above the snake, impacting it with a shower of debris and dust. Blocks of stone as large as Tom's torso rained down on them. He shielded his eyes from the oncoming wave of dust that assaulted him, leaping away from the destruction. The snake fought against the rain of stone, its massive head rising even as it was struck again and again.

It was not looking at him, seeming to have lost sight of Tom in its panic.

" _Eruerio._ "

The spell shot true, shaping into a curved disk, spinning in the air. It carved into the snake's eye, worming deep into the flesh of the socket. The beast roared in pain, trying to get away from the spell, but its struggles were in vain. With a sickening squelch, an eye, coated so thickly with black blood that it was impossible to see its yellow, popped out. It bounced onto the floor.

Tom Summoned the eye, bringing it to a hover before him. The dark blood that dripped from it confirmed that the beast was a demon. Likely instinct-driven, from the look of mad bloodlust in its eye, without a single intelligent thought in its reptilian brain.

He flicked his hand, and the severed eye was ripped into shreds. The remains splattered onto the ground, and Tom stepped over the mess, striding forwards. The snake heard his footsteps, its triangular head swivelling towards his direction. Again, Tom looked into its eye, but the effect was far duller. A gentle tug at his senses, instead of a consuming pull.

He flexed his fingers. They had regained a flush of pink, but they still looked ashen.

The snake's hood flared, its rows of teeth bared. Fury burned in the only eye it had left, but Tom did not care. The chill of his close shave with death had settled at the base of his spine, and the feel of it burned. He would ensure this pitiful,  _mindless_  creature fear him before he ended its miserable life.

Tom was no meek prey for it to hunt. He would ensure the beast knew that before it died.

The snake lunged, and Tom responded with a wordless wave of his staff. Water roared into existence, tendrils of it tangling and condensing together into a monster the mirror image of the snake demon. Two beasts clashed, one of flesh and glimmering scales, one of magic and shimmering water.

Tom's summoned creature wrapped its body around the demon's, tightening and strangling it in its grip. It slithered up the demon's body, its head twisting around, watery fangs poised to bite. A swing of Tom's staff changed the water snake's head into a dragon's. It roared out a torrent of boiling hot liquid, straight into the demon's face.

The demon screamed, throwing its head back as its remaining eye was hit with a vicious jet of steaming water. It toppled sideways to the ground, imbalanced by the pain and the thick body of water that trapped it and bound its movements.

Tom Banished a large piece of debris into the snake's mouth. It lodged itself there; he could almost taste the demon's fear as its jaw worked helplessly around the stone. It tried to bite down and crush it, but its teeth were made for piercing skin and swallowing its prey whole, not for crushing stone.

He summoned a spear of water, as he had done during his Selection. The snake twitched as he walked closer, hissing around the stone that blocked its mouth.

Tom looked into its eye. It did not fix on him, only stared uselessly off into another direction. Splotches of ruptured blood vessels coloured it with a reddish tinge. When Tom's boots scraped against the ground, it moved its head towards him. Even the sound of the roiling water wrapped around it, steady and low, seemed to disturb it, as it tried in vain to slither away.

It was blind now, only relying on sound. But emotion still shone clear in its eye, and Tom knew it was terrified.

How pitiful.

He drove his spear into the snake's eye, his magic easing the way for it to pierce through the softened flesh of the socket, through the snake's skull and straight into its brain.

The demon bucked wildly, even after Tom's spear and water snake had dissipated. It seemed to be going into overdrive, unable to reconcile the destruction of the brain with what it meant for the rest of its body.

Tom idly ran through the list of spells he knew in his head, wondering which would be best for removing a spell-resistant snake's head off its body.

It took thirty-nine Sectumsempras to achieve.

~*~

Tom paused, his entire upper torso stilling between the snake's jaws. He'd plucked every tooth out from within, all of them already safely pocketed away. There was nothing else left that could be considered valuable left to harvest in the head. He withdrew himself, dispelling his Bubble-Head Charm. He grimaced—the charm only covered his head, and the rest of his body had not been spared from the reek of the snake's breath that now clung to him.

He glanced behind him. "Come out," he commanded. "You didn't think I'd forgotten about you, did you?"

There was a long silence. "I was kind of hoping you had, actually." The words were sheepish but when Tom turned, he saw white teeth trapped within an unrepentant grin.

The creature the grin belonged to was an odd one. Not a vampire, Tom confirmed on his second assessment of it, and male. Tom thought they were about the same height, though the way the stranger stood, a lazy posture, with a kind of relaxed confidence that bordered on arrogance, made him seem just slightly shorter than Tom.

"What are you?" Tom asked finally.

The creature ignored the question and the resultant twitch in Tom's eye. "Terribly sorry about running off like that," he said, though he didn't sound very much so. "I'm not much of a fighter, and you seemed like you handled everything pretty well."

Tom's gaze travelled down the stranger's body. His shoulders hung low—perhaps too low, an exaggeration of relaxation. He stood with his feet a fair distance apart. Tom quietly cursed the bulky travelling cloak the creature wore; it obscured much of Tom's observations. He couldn't be sure because of it, but he had a strong suspicion that no matter what this being said, he  _was_ a good fighter, if not a talented one. It was in the way he stood.

The creature shifted a foot backward. Not much, but enough to tell Tom that he was anxious under Tom's scrutiny. Tom gave a tight smile. "Tom Riddle," he said. "And your name is?"

"Harry Evandel," he said, smile still in place, a perfect facade of calm and nonchalance.

"Evandel," repeated Tom. "What are you doing in a place like this, if you can't even fight?"

"I was looking for something," was the reply. His eyes flickered away from Tom.

Tom eyed Evandel. "And you simply happened upon me here?"

"I was looking for some plants and herbs," replied Evandel, seemingly oblivious to Tom's suspicion. He pulled out a small sack from his cloak pocket, dangling it from his fingers. Tom studied it, though he was more interested in the hand than the ragged leather pouch. Slender. Too delicate for heavy weapons. "They only grow on these mountains—specifically, in the old gardens around here."

"Were you looking for Alihotsy leaves?"

Evandel smiled innocently. "Oh no," he said. "Alihotsy trees can't be found here. I was looking for Leaping Toadstools, actually."

"Ah yes," said Tom, as though he hadn't known this all along. "It  _was_  Leaping Toadstools that grow here. I'd forgotten."

"It happens to the best of us," said Evandel. "What about you, friend? What were you doing here?"

Friend. Tom scoffed; this entire conversation was a farce of hidden traps, misleading remarks, and too-polite smiles. "I was exterminating a pest." He tipped his head to the demon's corpse—the one he'd learnt in its own mind was called Valanc, hiding a scowl as he did so.

He'd learnt a great many things in Valanc's mind. He'd learnt a bit about demonic magic—that it was, essentially, scavenged from human magic, thus how similar but flawed they were. He'd also learnt that the whole reason why Valanc was here was that the demon was in hiding, hunted by the Demon Lord. It was an interesting bit of information, suggesting that the demons weren't as tightly bound under their Lord's control as he'd thought.

Or so he'd thought until Tom tried to dig deeper into Valanc's mind about the Demon Lord, trying to learn his strengths, powers, appearance. Valanc had literally destroyed his own mind to prevent Tom from finding out anything more, despite the violent intensity of his own hatred towards the Demon Lord.

Evandel's eyes drifted to Valanc's corpse. "Right," he said. "He must have pissed you off."

"Oh? Why do you think so?"

"I watched you torture him," said Evandel with the same tone of one commenting on how lovely the weather today was.

"Ah," said Tom, pausing. "Not my best moment, I'm afraid."

"No, your fight against the Basilisk was much more interesting. I was impressed," said Evandel, his smile tugging wider, to an almost genuine curve.

Tom frowned. "Basilisk?"

Evandel raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought you humans would know the legend," he said. "Isn't Salazar Slytherin a bit of an important person to you all?"

"Salazar Slytherin?" Tom leaned forward. "He is associated with this Basilisk?"

"Of course. He was the one who created it," said Evandel.

"Tell me more."

Evandel's eyebrow rose higher. "Not even a 'please'? Pushy, aren't you?" Tom simply waited patiently, and finally, Evandel rolled his eyes and continued, "The Basilisk is a demon bred by your Slytherin. According to the legend, Slytherin hoped to use the Basilisk to destroy all demons—he must have thought the irony wonderful: a demon moulded into a weapon against demons." Evandel's lips twisted upwards. "He got his irony in the end; the Basilisk turned on its creator and ate him."

"Slytherin died in a battle with Godric Gryffindor," sneered Tom.

Evandel shrugged. "Perhaps he did. I admit, the ones who told me this story are a little biased when it comes to humans. But the legend is true as far as I can tell—it said that the Basilisk's gaze Petrifies." He glanced at Tom, who felt his displeasure bubble in his chest.

"Where did you hear this legend from?" said Tom. "It certainly isn't the humans—I would have known of such a… tale." He gave Evandel's ears and slitted pupils a lingering look. "And you are not human. That much is obvious."

"You're like a dog with a bone," said Evandel with a low chuckle. "I'll have you know I am  _part_ human."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "And the other part?"

"Parts, actually," said Evandel. "I do believe Mum had some hag in her." Tom twitched. Hags were notorious for their diet—humans. Evandel pounced on his discomfort, openly leering at him. "Yes, you do look quite tasty, don't you? Lots of muscle. I do like my humans a bit on the tougher side." He licked his lips exaggeratedly.

"You look like a slobbering mutt," said Tom shortly. He boxed away his discomfort to deal with later. "Part-human and part-hag. What else?"

"On second thoughts, you are a bit too skinny…"

"Do get to the point, Evandel."

"Fine, fine," he said. "I'm part-demon if you must know."

Whatever reaction Evandel expected—likely a violent one, judging by the slight bending of his legs, as though he was preparing to run—it clearly wasn't for Tom to nod in satisfaction and say, "I see."

Evandel looked delightfully thrown. "I—wait, what?" he spluttered.

Tom smiled blandly. "I see," he repeated. He turned his back on Evandel, returning his attention to the snake's headless corpse. It was still twitching, but nowhere nearly as violently as before. That was good enough. He palmed his wand in his hand; he always preferred his wand for more delicate work, like skinning and disembowelling a sixty-foot long snake.

"You're not afraid? I could run you through right now!" said Evandel. So he did have a weapon, Tom noted.

Tom snorted.

"But I—" Evandel cut himself off, frustrated. His tongue was not as quick when he was flustered. "You knew?"

"You have some physical characteristics that betray your heritage.  _Secario_ ," murmured Tom. The spell glowed at the tip of his wand, ready to use. He bent closer to the severed end of the snake's underside and touched his wand to its skin. He drew a line along the middle with it, frowning when it only made a scratch. He waved away the spell. "The slitted pupils, the ears and your teeth, for example.  _Infindio._ "

"You can't have guessed just from  _that._ I could be—oh gods, that is  _disgusting,_ " said Evandel. He sounded like he was retching, but Tom couldn't be sure, too focused on sawing his way through the snake's skin, wand held with the hilt against his chest like a dagger. The new spell was more effective, but it was still slow progress.

"I would have thought anything with some demonic blood in it would be less squeamish about blood," said Tom.

"A demon who is watching you gut another demon," countered Evandel. "And don't call me it. Gods, I'm looking away now—anyway, as I was saying, you can't have guessed just from my appearance."

"I didn't," grunted Tom. He wondered if he should summon a House-Elf to do this for him. But no, House-Elf and demonic magic might interfere with each other. "You were uncomfortable with telling me your heritage. You told me about your mother's hag descent, so it wasn't shame. You also told me about the Basilisk's legend, one I had never heard before. In that story, there were two main parties—demons and humans." Tom grimaced as black blood poured all over his arms, covering them from elbow to fingers. "Therefore, it is most likely that the story was passed down between one of the two races. Seeing as the humans have never heard of the legend, the only possible candidates are the demons. And demons are not known for speaking to many outside of their own kind."

Evandel was silent for a long moment, and focused though he was on his work, Tom still felt the flutter of smugness in his chest. Then, "That's very good," said Evandel. "You're not the only one who can do a bit of guessing though."

Tom paused, glancing at Evandel. "Oh?"

"You're the Champion," he replied. "I could give you a pompous speech about how I deduced your identity, if you like."

"No need," said Tom. He yanked hard at his wand and felt the snake's skin split all the way down to the halfway point of its body. He smiled in satisfaction. "You deduced it after you watched my fight."

"Yes, that  _is_  an easy one," admitted Evandel. "Try this one: you're a pompous shit who spends his days surrounded by other pompous shits, and your definition of fun is sniping at those pompous shits while they snipe right back at you."

Tom blinked. "I don't think anyone has quite put it like that before." He dragged his wand all the way down to snake's tail; the cutting had gotten easier once he'd made decent headway in, his magic adjusting to maximise his efficiency. "You're correct—except none of those pompous shits, as you say,  _snipe_ at me." He stepped back, a rush of air leaving his lungs. "Excellent."

Evandel stepped up next to him, staring at the long, even split down the snake's belly that revealed fleshy white within. "You're not going to eat it, are you? A legendary creature, and you plan to eat it."

"What I plan to do with it is none of your concern," said Tom, his voice cool as he flexed away the ache in his knuckles. He flicked his wand, and the tail end of the corpse rose into the air, hovering just an inch above the ground. Enough space for Tom to begin peeling off the skin.

Evandel quirked an eyebrow. "If you insist," he said. "Where are you heading to after you finish doing… this?" He waved a vague hand at the corpse, his expression one of distaste.

Tom pursed his lips, considering the half-demon. He was an irritant, with his attitude and the utter fearlessness and ease with which he spoke with Tom. But his attitude and what he was intrigued Tom.

Most people, Tom knew, tended to be anxious when they had just seen a man kill a sixty-foot snake. Displays of power and violence frightened them. It made them feel as though they were in the presence of a predator. When that happened, they did one of two things—run or stay. Most that stayed ended up becoming his followers, drawn to his power like a moth to a flame due to having an utter lack of their own.

But Evandel was not like that either. He was neither fearful nor admiring, neither nervous nor in awe.

If anything, he had seemed… fascinated. In a way that made Tom feel as though he was being scrutinised under a magnifying glass and prepared for dissection.

 _That's fine,_ he thought.  _He may try to dissect me, but I'll be the one holding onto the scalpel in the end._

He glanced at the half-demon from the corner of his eye. Evandel was lounging against the wall, looking at Tom as he awaited a reply.

"I'll be going into the town," said Tom finally. "I have business to take care of there." He looked at Evandel, his mouth lifting into a smile. It did not reach his eyes, and he knew Evandel saw that. "Care to join?"

Evandel grinned back, eyes equally cold. "Why not?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to clarify in this chapter: Tom is not a Parselmouth. I've decided to remove such abilities from the humans' set of skills-i.e., Parseltongue and Metamorphmagi are skills only possessed by demons in this world. 
> 
> With this chapter, I was particularly worried about the characterisation. It was actually really hard to write an introduction scene where they didn't both end up killing one another, so I'm hoping their interaction was interesting and believable, as well as the choice Tom made to invite Harry along. I also don't write a lot of fight scenes, so I'm not sure if what I've written is good or not. If any of you have any comments on the characterisations and the fight scene, whether it's good or bad, I'd love to hear it so I can improve on that!
> 
> Finally, and not at all importantly, but may be of interest to some of you, I tried really hard to avoid mentioning 'Tom's snake' throughout the chapter. Because while amusing, an innuendo like that probably wouldn't have worked well with the more serious tone of the first scene that I was going for.
> 
> Oh, and a bit late but Happy New Year!


	8. Prejudice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again. It's been a while, hasn't it? It took me quite a bit to get around to writing this chapter. Half of it sat on my laptop untouched for months, as my writing is wont to do; I have a tendency of writing half a chapter then just leaving it for long stretches of time. 
> 
> Anyway, Chapter 8 is here. Nothing very high-intensity happens, I'm afraid, but it would be a most exhausting marathon if something high-intensity did happen every chapter.
> 
> Enjoy :)

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

        Susan flinched violently, ramming her elbow straight into the concrete wall behind her. At least five people screamed and there were some creative swears being muttered. She looked around with wild eyes. There was no one here except for the Auror trainees, all of whom looked as shaken as she did.

         _Well_ , Susan corrected herself. _Not all_.

        Dahlia Anderson had her wand out and was scanning her surroundings with a sharp-eyed wariness that Susan hadn’t seen in anyone but her Aunt Amelia before. She decided that Anderson had the right idea about it and withdrew her own wand, swallowing as she looked around the Duelling Hall. It was still empty, the source of the shout nowhere to be seen.

        Susan strongly suspected it was Mad-Eye Moody, their instructor. His reputation far preceded him, and she had heard more than one Auror grumble about his paranoia and training methods.

        Her suspicions were proven correct when Moody appeared in the centre of the hall, his Disillusionment spell fading like he was being painted into existence. He stood tall, leaning heavily on his peg leg and cane—clanking, loud things that made Susan wonder how she hadn’t heard his entry. His famous magical eye was large and bulbous, strapped over an empty socket, spinning and turning to assess each and every one of them. Scars mangled his face, and they made the frown he wore look even more monstrous. Moody cut an intimidating figure, and he knew it. “Pathetic,” snarled the old Auror. “Get up, Prewett, and stop embarrassing yourself. The rest of you—in front of me. _Now!_ ”

        Susan hurried forwards, stowing her wand.

        “Only two of you had your wands out,” grumbled Moody. “Good reflexes, Anderson. Bones, you did alright, but you were still slow.” Susan bit her lip, shame colouring her cheeks. She had known his reputation and had known he was her instructor. She should have at least expected it. “Don’t look at them,” roared Moody when some turned to stare at Susan and Anderson. “Are they the biggest threat in the room? No. You keep your eyes on the biggest threat always or you’ll end up dead before you finish your first year as an Auror. And right now, I’m the biggest threat in the room, so you keep your eyes _on me_. You’ll be sick of looking at each other’s ugly mugs soon enough anyway.”

        “Ugly?” came a girl’s indignant voice.

        Moody ignored her, though his electrical eye did swivel to glare at her before moving away again. “I’ll give you the same induction speech I give the new Auror recruits every year. As you well know, there are twenty of you. If one of you drops out of training, we will replace you—because that’s what most of you are.” He leaned forwards, glaring at each one of them. “ _Replaceable_. And there _will_ be dropouts. Auror training isn’t something to play at; it’s not something _wicked_ to enter with your mates. If all of you make it through training, you will join the Auror Force. Over the course of your career, eight of you will be killed by demons. Two of you will be killed by criminals. Three of you will be killed by your own stupidity.”

        There was complete silence. Susan wasn’t questioning her choice to enter the Auror Force. She would never. But Moody’s speech had been more unnerving than she liked the admit.

        A girl raised her hand slowly. “A-Are you a Seer, Auror Moody?” she asked, looking pale. Susan thought she might be the same person who had been offended by Moody’s assessment of their ‘ugly mugs’.

        “ _No, Montague, I’m not a damn Seer_ ,” roared Moody. Susan winced, rubbing at her ear. “It’s called statistics, girl. This is solid fact, none of that Divination nonsense.”

        “O-Oh,” said Montague, her voice small.

        Moody turned, his tattered cloak sweeping out behind his heels. “All of you up against the wall,” he barked. “Except for you, Anderson. You’re up first; let’s see what you’re made of.”

        He waved his hand, Conjuring a desk and a large hourglass as Anderson climbed onto the duelling platform. She settled into position, her wand held loosely in her fingers, her body leaning back almost in relaxation. But her eyes were alert and ever-watchful, observing Moody as he brandished his wand, his expression grim.

        When the hourglass turned, Anderson was a burst of movement and spells. She danced around Moody’s attacks, her feet light and sure. She was speed and grace, as opposed to Moody, who had barely moved since the duel begun. He was like a fortress; Anderson’s spells slid off his shields, unable to find a weakness in his defences that she could exploit.

        The duel continued in a stalemate for a while, but Susan saw when the tide began to turn. Anderson was becoming just a bit sloppier, her endurance dwindling as the battle dragged on without her being able to land a single spell on Moody. And it eventually became clear that Moody had the upper hand. He was not even out of breath, and the speed at which his spells were being cast was only quickening, jabbing brutally at Anderson’s limits.

        Soon, it was all Anderson could do to avoid the incoming spells.

        “FASTER, ANDERSON,” roared Moody. “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, LASS?”

        Anderson stumbled, and a Stinging Hex pierced into her arm. Susan could see the tightening of Anderson’s face, the sheen of sweat that coated her dark skin. A Bone-Twister Hex jerked her right leg to the side and Anderson dropped to one knee with a loud _crack_. Susan winced. That sounded like a bad sprain, at best. But impressively, Anderson threw up a Shield Charm and didn’t give in until a powerful Concussion Curse knocked her out cold.

        Moody grinned, a macabre rippling of scars and mauled features. He stalked over to Anderson’s unconscious form and Rennervated her with a point of his wand. “Not half-bad,” he told her. Anderson grimaced in return. A small grunt of pain escaped her as she jostled her injuries sitting up. “Can you heal yourself?”

        Anderson shook her head. “Can’t heal the leg,” she said, face pale as she looked down at the injured limb, bent into an unnatural position.

        Moody poked at it with his wand, ignoring the hiss of pain he’d elicited. “Dislocated,” he decided. “I’ll heal it for you this time because Amelia will be on my back like an angry Hungarian Horntail if I put you through the ringer in your first session. But next time—next time, you fix it up yourself or make your way to Pomfrey at the _end_ of training.” He gave the rest of them a hard stare. “Same for you lot.”

        Montague let out a low whimper. Susan shifted ‘look up healing spells’ to the top of her mental list of priorities.

        “On three,” said Moody, returning his attention to Anderson. She swallowed. “Three.”

        There was a loud, sickening sound of a bone snapping back into place. Anderson gave a muffled scream. “You said on three,” she snarled, her breathing heavy.

        “Aye,” replied Moody. “And I said three, didn’t I? Prewett, get up here. Good job, Anderson.”

        Anderson didn’t look like she appreciated the praise. She rather looked like she was restraining herself from lunging forwards and throttling Moody. Fortunately, she managed to squash the desire and stalked off the platform without an incident—though she did look as though she’d eaten a House-Elf’s dirty pillowcase.

        Prewett walked past her, his lips almost as white as his face. His duelling stance was stiff and unnatural, whether from nerves or lack of skill, Susan wasn’t sure. Either way, Moody made short work of him and he came out with two broken fingers and a bruised rib, all of which were quickly healed.

        Weasley, Boot, Daugerson and Pucey were called up next, and Moody cycled through each one of them with brutal efficiency. All of them were good, as they had to have been to have gotten into the programme. But as the scowl on Moody’s face deepened, it became clear that none of them were good _enough_.

        Then it was Susan’s turn.

        She walked up to the duelling platform, trying not to feel as though she was walking up to her funeral pyre. When she lifted her wand, the tip of it shook slightly. She took in a deep breath, hoping it would settle her nerves a little, help her focus sharpen. It didn’t.

        But too late—the hourglass was turning. The duel had begun. Moody fired the first hex. She dodged to the side, jabbing her wand in the familiar movements of the Disarming Spell. Moody’s shield, of course, held against it. Hers didn’t when he shot off a volley of curses and hexes, shattering her protection and forcing her to hastily deflect and dodge.

        He barely gave her a chance to breathe, let alone think, before his next spell chain spiralled at her. Susan leapt to the side, shooting off her own hexes at him, including a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex. He sent a Flame Curse at her, narrowly missing her cheek. She could smell the sour scent of burnt hair. His spell-casting sped up, and he pushed her back slowly. There was a glint in his eye, like a predator herding its prey into its lair. Desperately, Susan tried to fight back, tried to match him spell for spell. But that damn shield of his was impenetrable. Her strongest Blasting Hex had shuddered through it, but it had held easily, as though it hadn’t taken nearly everything in her to fire off her spell.

        When the end came, it was anti-climatic.

        His curse snapped out and cut into her elbow. Susan gritted her teeth, ignoring the sharp pain as she corrected her position to better defend her side. Then Moody’s next jinx turned the knuckles of her right hand inside out, and her wand dropped to the ground.

        “Overcompensating. You’re dead,” grunted Moody. He limped up to her and with a muttered _Episkey_ , her wounds were healed. He glanced up, pausing when his normal eye met hers. Susan could almost see him comparing her with to aunt; it was in the way the corner of his mouth pinched, as though he wasn’t quite pleased with what he saw. It was in the way his eyes glazed slightly, as though he was seeing someone else rather than her. Then he looked away and she knew she fell short. “Next.”

        It burned.

~*~

        The Hall of Knowledge, as it was named by a pompous Council Leader some centuries ago, was the single largest structure in all of Hogwarts. It was larger, even, than the Academy, which took up an entire quarter of the land surface within Citadel's walls, the area of its interior totalling up to twice the size of Citadel. The Hall of Knowledge was thrice even that, buried deep beneath the Academy; some said it took days to reach the bottom of its depths, where the most esoteric of books were stored.

        Most, like Susan, kept their wanderings in the library to the surface levels. Muggle and magical books alike were stocked there. They were usually basic texts, books like the _Cooking for Dummies_ Susan had once picked up for Hannah or _Charming Your Household_ that her Aunt Amelia had (as discreetly as possible) borrowed from here.

       After the boring domestic books, there was the Healing Section, which was where Susan was ensconced in after her gruelling session with Mad-Eye Moody.

        She had grabbed as many books as she could stack in her arms, heading bee-line for the first open seat she saw. She dropped her books down on the tabletop with little grace, ignoring the irritated looks people around her cast.

        _Thank Merlin_ , thought Susan as she sank down into the seat with a low hiss. Her muscles ached everywhere. Every part of her skin felt bruised and her freshly mended arm, which had been snapped like a twig in three different places by just a single spell, still felt tender to the touch.

        And it was only the first training session with Moody she'd had so far. Susan had always thought the rumours she'd heard were exaggerated—but if anything, they were understated. Moody was madder than a frenzied Kneazle, overzealous, harsh and unforgiving.

            Susan cracked open her first book and settled in for a long, dreary study session. Honestly, she’d thought her days of studying were over since she’d graduated Hogwarts, but the Auror programme seemed to involve more studying than her NEWTs year. She had three theory lectures to attend every week, studying law, criminal psychology and magical and mundane forensics respectively.

            And those were only the _basics._ It was expected that any topics the lecturer brought up that you found you were insufficiently knowledgeable of, you were to take initiative and study up on those too.

            ‘Brutal’ didn’t cover half of it.

            Susan flipped to a random page of _Basic First Aid: What to Do When You Don’t Have Your Wand On You._

            _… herbs that can be used to disinfect a wound. Such poultices are common remedies in muggle villages where trained Healers are a rare commodity. While non-magical methods are slower and less efficient, they are nonetheless useful if you find yourself trapped in a forest with a cut down the length of your leg with no sign of incoming help. Unless you’re trapped in a desert, in which case, these herbs are unlikely to be growing within vicinity and we, the esteemed authors, wish you the best of luck and our condolences._

She blinked. Surely she hadn’t read that right?

            But she had. Susan checked who the authors were, and found in embossed letters, ‘ _L.J. Evandel and H.B. Prince’._ She’d never heard of them, but looking at the sheer variety of the recipes of poultices and muggle medicine listed within, she thought that they must have been quite knowledgeable—if one looked past their… humour.

            She set her Jotter Quill to work on the book while she looked through the rest of the texts she’d grabbed; it wasn’t what she needed right now, but the knowledge seemed useful nonetheless. She flipped through a more promising title: _Magical Healing: A Wizard’s Survival Guide._

            “… think I know her. Susan, is that you?”

            Susan blinked, looking up. A familiar face stared down at her, an older boy with rounded cheeks and warm brown eyes. It took her a moment place him. “Oh. Savast,” she said with a nod.

            He grinned, pulling a chair out for himself. “I haven’t seen you in a while. This is Leilara,” he added. He tugged a brunette girl from behind him forwards. She gave Susan a hesitant smile, sinking down into the seat next to Savast’s. “Leilara, this is Susan Bones. She’s the one who helped me out at the Auror interviews.”

            “Nice to meet you,” offered Susan. A boy next to Susan lifted his head from his book to glare at them. She rolled her eyes and tossed up a few privacy charms.

            “Hello,” said Leilara softly. She kept her head ducked down and her eyes averted from Susan.

            “Listen, I wanted to thank you again for the Lady’s Mantle,” said Savast. “I was a terrible mess that day, and it was only afterwards that I thought maybe you’d been carrying it around for yourself.”

            “You needed it more,” said Susan.

            “Thanks, but it didn’t really do much good in the end,” said Savast, his expression falling. “I mean, the Lady’s Mantle worked wonders, but well… I guess I’m just not cut out to be an Auror.”

            There was an awkward pause. Susan wasn’t quite sure what she should say to cheer him up; anything she said might be interpreted as arrogant or condescending since _she_ had gotten into the programme. But Leilara, who’d been quiet so far, touched Savast’s arm, and that seemed to be all he needed to shake off his depression.

            He gave a forced smile. “Well, I promised Leilara I’d move on if I didn’t get into the Auror programme. I’m trying out Enchanting now; it’s loads of fun.” Savast paused. “I haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, though.”

            From the corner of her eye, Susan saw Leilara twitch, a cringe flashing across her face before she suppressed it. Clearly, not getting ‘the hang of it yet’ was a bit of an understatement. “Well, good luck with that,” said Susan sincerely. She turned to Leilara, who had yet to say a word since the initial introductions. “So, er, Leilara, what do you do?”

            Leilara started at being addressed, her eyes darting up to Savast, who gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m studying medicine,” she said, so quietly that Susan had to lean in a little.

            “Medicine,” repeated Susan. “Not Healing?”

            Leilara flushed. “I’m Muggle.”

            “Oh. _Oh_ ,” said Susan, her mouth falling open. Leilara’s complexion darkened further. “Sorry, I was just surprised.” She cringed even as she said it. “No, I mean—oh, bugger.”

            Savast snickered, not even flinching when she glared at him.

            “It’s alright,” said Leilara. It was hard to tell because she kept her head low and her voice was so soft, but Susan got the impression that it _wasn’t_ actually alright to her. “A lot of people react like that.”

            Susan could only imagine. While wizards and witches lived pretty peacefully with Muggles, it wasn’t always that way. When Grindelwald came into the scene a few decades ago, enslaving Muggles and decrying them as filth unworthy of sharing the same living space as the superior wizards and witches, things between magicals and Muggles got so bad that the Council had considered banishing Muggles from the city.

            Even now, years after Grindelwald had been incarcerated, his poison still seeped through the fissures of society. The more radical purebloods like the Blacks showed open disgust towards Muggles and to a lesser extent, the Muggle-born. The problem was that even some of the average magicals were distrustful and suspicious.

            It meant that though Muggles and magicals still mingled together, had their stores on the same streets, attended the same festivities and even lived as neighbours, there was a divide between the two groups. Muggles like Leilara were not always welcome in well-known magical districts—the Academy and the Hall of Knowledge were two prime examples of that.

            “Well, this is awkward,” beamed Savast after long seconds ticked by with no one saying a thing.

            Susan rolled her eyes but hid the relief she felt at his interjection. “I think I preferred you when you were too nervous to speak,” she muttered.

            Savast looked flustered. “Yes, well. Er, anyway,” he said, stumbling over his words, “did you end up getting into the Auror programme?”

            “Yes, I did,” said Susan with a sigh.

            He squinted. “Don’t look too happy about it or anything.”

            “It’s—Well, it’s hard,” said Susan. “Really hard.”

            “You knew that, didn’t you?”

            She bit her lip. “Moody—our instructor—says that we have to heal our injuries ourselves, or get them healed _after_ class,” she told him.

            Savast cringed. “I think I’m a bit glad to have not gotten in, after all.”

            Leilara let out a small giggle, looking up properly for the first time. She had quite nice eyes, noticed Susan. A very pretty, clear shade of grey. She hadn’t managed to get a good look before because Leilara was always staring at the table. The girl tossed Savast a meaningful look, which he responded to by slumping in his seat.

            “I know,” groaned Savast. At Susan’s quizzical expression, he elaborated, “Leilara was always trying to tell me that being an Auror wasn’t a good fit for me; she’s being irritating about it now because she was right.” He shot a playful glare at his friend, who smiled a little before ducking her head again.

            “Why didn’t you think it was a good fit for him?” wondered Susan, who hardly knew Savast well enough to understand.

            “He is very gentle,” said Leilara, affection colouring her tone.

            Savast blushed to the tips of his ears when Susan turned to assess him thoughtfully. She could see, sort of, what Leilara meant when she said he was gentle. Savast had a kind of innocence to him that would have had to be twisted and wrung out from him in Auror training, the kind that shielded him from the worst of reality. Hannah was a bit like that too, and Susan knew that without that little piece of innocence, Hannah would be miserable.

            But Savast wasn’t Hannah, so Susan decided her best response would be to shrug and move on. It was clear that he wanted to be an Auror despite what Leilara thought, and who was Susan to say he wasn’t suited for it when this was only her second conversation with him?

            “So what are you two doing in the library?” asked Susan.

            “Well, I was actually just meeting Leilara here so we could go for dinner together. She’s always studying; medicine is pretty tough,” said Savast, a hint of pride in his voice. “I usually have to drag her out so she doesn’t forget to eat.”

            “Do you want to join us?” said Leilara hesitantly.

            “What?” Susan was confused. “I couldn’t—I mean, I don’t want to intrude or anything.” _Or be third wheel on their date._

            “No, you wouldn’t be intruding,” said Savast, a genuinely warm smile on his face. “We’re thinking about going to the Leaky Cauldron.”

            “Er,” said Susan. She glanced down at her books.

            “You don’t have to say yes,” said Leilara, sounding a bit mortified.

            “No, I do want to go,” assured Susan. Hannah would be on her shift at the Leaky Cauldron too, and she hadn’t seen her friend since the programme started. “It’s just… oh, bugger it all. I’ll come; I just need to borrow some of these books first.”

            Savast blinked at the massive stack towering next to Susan, as though just noticing it was there. “Blimey. You’re taking all that?”

            “Well, no,” said Susan, but she was actually at a bit of a loss. “I don’t know which ones are good, though.”

            “I think _Countering Curse Magic_ is quite good,” offered Leilara. “And _Light and Dark: Everything You Need to Know About Magical Injuries_ is a good primer.” She fell silent, blushing when Susan gave her a strange look.

            “Thanks,” said Susan, setting aside the two books she’d pointed out. “Any other recommendations?”

            Leilara chewed on her lip, her eyes skimming past the books’ titled spines. They lit up when she saw the book by L.J. Evandel and H.B. Prince. “Oh, definitely take that one. That book is genius; they’ve got recipes in there that I had never heard of, and the authors made sure even Muggles could make them, even if the ingredients were magical,” she said excitedly. Then she remembered herself and shrank back.

            “Alright,” said Susan, this time managing to conceal her surprise at Leilara’s outburst. It seemed like the topic of medicine could draw her out like nothing else. “Three books ought to do it for now. Thanks, Leilara.”

            She smiled shyly. “It’s nothing.”

            Savast grinned. “Leilara’s the best in her class. She knows everything there is to know about medicine and Healing.”

            Privately, Susan wondered why a Muggle would need to know how to use magic to heal injuries. But said nothing, only thanking Leilara again before leaving to borrow her books.


End file.
